


SUBALTERN

by grovergirl12



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Hermione, Double Agents, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Loss of Virginity, Post-War, Power Dynamics, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Slow Burn, War, enemiestolovers, expensive draco, toxic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grovergirl12/pseuds/grovergirl12
Summary: When double-agent Draco Malfoy discovers Hermione Granger has been acting on an independent agenda during the war, he makes her an offer she can't refuse. Introduced to a world of privilege and prestige through Draco's Muggle connections, Hermione finds herself reclaiming the kind of power she never thought she could hold in neither wizard nor Muggle society.Yet in the midst of her rise, she is increasingly unsure whether Draco is her ally- or an enemy she would have done better to avoid.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 95
Kudos: 176





	1. Prologue

It was not the arrival Hermione Granger had been expecting.

It was all supposed to be as ordinary as any visit during the summer holidays. No matter her famous friendships and the impending war, there was no security plan for Hermione's arrival to the Burrow like there had been for Harry. Barely more than a verbal invitation from Molly, asking for her to come well before the wedding so "her and Ginny could give her a hand." Molly's gentle preference for dated gender roles may have bothered Hermione once, but those days had slipped away sometime after fifth year: after the break in at the Ministry, when Death Eaters were no longer an abstract concept like the boogeyman. When she no longer found herself forgiving her peers for not properly understanding the implications of the etymology and origin of Mudblood, but wondered how many in the sea of heads at the Great Hall looked at her and thought the nasty word.

It's not that Molly's words hadn't irked her. It's just that it no longer felt so important when she and Ginny were "asked" to peel potatoes for dinner while the boys played Quidditch or lounged in the garden.

So on the 2nd of August— really the 3rd, she corrected herself primly as she trekked through the adjacent field towards the crooked little house— she had arrived rather unceremoniously at the Burrow at 1:38 in the morning, just a single meter outside the Apparition line.

Hermione Granger did not take senseless risks.

None of this felt fitting, really. Not after the way she had left her parents. Not after the three tries it took to Magick her belongings to the Burrow, her wand trembling so much that red sparks spilled uselessly from the end, burning tiny black dots into the carpet of her childhood bedroom. To go from that to walking up to the brightly lit house where she had spent so many happy summer holidays was like Apparating into a separate reality.

A reality where she could drop snide comments that any of the boys of age could easily peel the potatoes with their wands. No Ginny and Hermione elbow grease necessary.

And so while it was far from what she expected as she opened the Burrow's front door, it felt somehow _satisfying_ to enter a room whose chaos reflected the utter emotional disarray roiling in her gut.

The muggy August night erupted into sound the moment Hermione's hand twisted the copper knob. She wrenched it open in surprise, having originally intended to make a quiet entrance in anticipation of the number of Weasleys and Order members likely sleeping inside. Instead, she was hit with such a blast of sound and movement that she stood momentarily stunned in the doorway, pink lips parted in shock.

The golden light of the kitchen lantern shone overhead, casting the scene below in almost surreal sharpness compared to the darkness Hermione had just walked through. Her eyes landed first on Molly shrieking by the stovetop, uncharacteristically frazzled even for her usual temper. Lupin was beside her, wand erupting in silver, speaking quickly and urgently as the Patronus materialized. Tonks stood before them pulling Fred's shoulders from behind and shouting, wand forgotten in the holster around her waist.

What Fred was unsuccessfully charging towards was what finally sprang Hermione into action.

Ron, George, Ginny, and Harry were a cluster of flailing limbs and shouts behind the kitchen's rectangular wooden table. Harry was pushing Ron back with vigor Hermione had never seen him exhibit— it was forceful, even frantic. Ginny appeared to be doing the same to George, albeit with less physical exertion and more threatening jabs of her wand. Seated behind Harry and Ginny, arms bound, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer, was Draco Malfoy.

Hermione surged forward. For a moment, the room seemed to pause, Lupin's Patronus streaking out the door before it banged shut. Molly's shrieks seemed to catch in her throat. Ron and Harry stopped their struggle abruptly, looking at her almost guiltily. Or perhaps she just imagined she saw all this— because there he was. Sitting bound in front of her. _Sneering. Sneering._

The last time she had seen him was that night defending Hogwarts, a streak of white blonde hair that seemed almost luminescent in the light of the spells being flung through the air. It wasn't until later that she had found out where he was coming from, and why. At the time she had been confused, her first thought— _Lucius_ — even though the hair had been far too short.

But she knew now. Yes, she knew everything. And he had the audacity to sit there. _Sneering_.

When he was the reason— he, his family, their deranged little circle, the Ministry politicians in their back pocket— were the reason her parents would wake not knowing who she was.

He lifted his eyes to look at her, the sneer seeming to become amused for a split second. But again, perhaps she just imagined this.

She exhaled a breath. Didn't realize she had been holding it.

"Hermione—" Lupin took a step forward.

It was the authoritative tone of his voice that made her act quickly. While she still had the chance. She took a quick step towards the table, whipping her wand upwards in an even quicker motion. Malfoy gasped in surprise as the spell hit him, a thin line of red ripping across his face, down his neck and shoulder. His shirt tore in the same clean line, the incision on his body only ending at the point where the table had interfered with her spellwork. A long black burn, smoking slightly, drew a direct path back to her across the wood. She took another step, striking again, and again, taking savage pleasure in—

It was on her fourth strike that her wand flew from her hand and Tonks wrenched her to the side.

" _Are you mad?_ " she demanded, pulling her away from the table towards the stovetop where Molly stood, hands clapped over her cheeks in apparent shock. Lupin was holding her wand grimly in his hand.

"What is he doing here?" Hermione could feel her nostrils flaring. Rage was swelling within her, fed rather than abated by Tonks' harsh hand around her arm. "What is he doing here?"

She could no longer see him behind the others from where Tonks had pulled her to. She wrenched her arm sideways, trying to step so she could see him again. Tonks pulled her back by the shoulders this time, much like she had with Fred moments earlier.

"Hermione—" Harry said. "Good— well, good, let's—"

"Everybody in the other room." It was Lupin who spoke this time. His voice held its usual authoritative tone, but a hint of coldness edged into it. A threat, perhaps. He was looking over Hermione's head, in the direction of the bound figure behind the table. "The others will be here shortly. We will attend to Mr. Malfoy in the meantime."

The room, which had fallen into shocked silence, erupted once more.

"—pulled this for long enough—"

"—absolutely no reason why we can't be part of these decisions now—"

"— _killed Dumbledore_ —"

"ENOUGH!" Lupin barked. The room fell abruptly back into silence, although the air seemed to crackle with intensity. "Harry stays. The others— out."

Stubbornly, reluctantly, with a few words muttered by each in the direction of the bound figure in the chair, the Weasleys trooped out of the room.

"You too, Hermione." Lupin was looking at her strangely. Tonks hadn't relinquished her hands from her shoulders, although her grip was slack. Hermione realized she was frozen in place. She felt Lupin press her wand softly into her hand. "Go on, now." Gently.

She stepped forward jerkily, eyes fixed straight ahead. The ballooning rage seemed to have frozen within her. It was tearing at her chest, the pressure of it. It made her feel light headed yet firm footed. Purposeful.

He was slumped slightly forward, head still bowed from her attacks. The three lines she had left were now seeping blood, waterfalls rather than rivulets. One on the side of his face and arm, two down his back and arm where he had instinctively turned his body away as much as the binding allowed after the first slash. A steady drip of red ran down his jaw, beading at his pointy chin. His shirt fell away from his shoulder, cut cleanly along each of the three lines where her spellwork had fallen. Decisive, thin, yet deep wounds. The skin left untouched by blood had an almost alabaster sheen from the kitchen light.

Harry took a half step in front of Malfoy hesitantly as Hermione paused before she reached the archway leading to the living area.

"Malfoy," she said softly.

Malfoy looked up. His grey eyes met hers and she felt the rage inside her inflate to bursting at the emotion reflected within them: something hot and alive despite his defeated posture. She couldn't tell quite what. It certainly wasn't fear, or remorse, or even surprise.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked, even softer.

If Lupin behind her thought her soft tone indicated a forthcoming apology, Harry had known her too long to be so mistaken. He gripped his wand a little more firmly and shifted further in front of Malfoy.

Malfoy didn't seem to appreciate Harry's motion, leaning his head and injured shoulder as far to the right as he could to see her.

"Hurt me, Granger?" The cold smile that twisted his mouth didn't meet the vivacity of the strange emotion in his eyes. "Go to bed now, love. Let the adults talk."

In the second it takes her to disarm her, she's already lashed her wand upwards, landing a final satisfying slice up his calf and thigh. It stops short of his torso as her wand clatters behind her.

She hears a pained chuckle and cough as she is frog marched into the living room and up the stairs by Tonks.

*

**A/N: TW/CW sexual violence**

**In light of my fic becoming more popular, I felt an author's note at the beginning might be merited given the themes this fic will touch upon.**

**Hermione's struggle with self worth and insecurity in the wizarding world is a central theme of this story. If you read on AO3, you may also see the tag "Dark Hermione," which I posted because later in this story Hermione will be making immoral and self-serving choices that while logical in this fic are not necessarily how she would behave in canon. More importantly, however, is how her self worth is impacted by Muggle/wizard relations as I have chosen to portray them in this story. I have chosen to depict Muggle/wizard relations in a way that is not based off any one thing in particular and I imagine in this fic, as I did with the canon series, that Muggle/wizard history is one of mutual mistrust and relatively separate worlds, with class dynamics being particularly strong in the wizarding world. Because wizards know about Muggles and not vice versa, I've always imagined wizards to feel superior to Muggles and even infantilize them in a sense, though many would never admit it. Hence, the treatment of Hermione and the frequent microaggressions present in this fic.**

**However, Hermione's mental state and the treatment of her in this fic particularly by Order members is based off _my experience as a survivor of sexual violence_ and _as a woman_ more than anything else. There are no perfect parallels in this fic to the real world-- there is no character meant to be depicted as a metaphorical perpetrator of sexual violence, Hermione will _never_ experience sexual violence, and Muggle/wizard relations are not based off a real life historical scenario. Still, in light of the criticism the Dramione fandom has been receiving lately, I felt it necessary to address where Hermione's thoughts are coming from as well as how I have written this fiction of a fiction. Hermione's struggle with self worth and uncontrollable anger are based off how I have felt as a survivor. Additionally, the repeated invalidation, judgement, and _true_ perception that she isn't "worth" as much from the wizards around her (that she is supposed to love and trust) is one of the only direct parallels to the real world present in this fic.**

**Finally, while I think it should go without saying, please stop comparing the Order in Subaltern to the Order in Manacled. The scenarios and characters are completely different. You are actually not supposed to hate the Order in my fic. Lol. It's supposed to be complicated and you are viewing them through the eyes of Hermione, who isn't meant to be an objective narrator. But really, I want to nip that in the bud before it continues, because I now see why other authors find comparisons so frustrating.**

**Thank you for reading! I'm excited to continue with the story.**


	2. Worth

_March 25th, 1998._

IT always came back to him. _Malfoy_.

She twisted her head sideways on the marble and vomited. She could feel her heartbeat stuttering in her ears. Her eardrums were throbbing with it— erratic, pulsing, painful, each beat making her head feel it might burst open with the pressure.

Hermione could feel her fingers and legs twitching. Little static twitches twinging all the way up her tendons and bones and through her spine.

She wanted to twist her head away from the puddle of vomit but found herself unable. She simply couldn't recall how to move. The spreading pool of sick reached her cheek. Hermione didn't flinch. The feeling of her heartbeat pulsating through her head was becoming more acute.

Black boots against the marble stepped into her line of vision and suddenly cool hands were flat on the sides of her face and neck, turning her head to look back up at the ceiling. A pale face loomed suddenly over her. Grey eyes met hers. Unreadable. He spoke, but she couldn't make out his words over the _thrum, thrum thrum_ that threatened to burst her head open. A thumb swiped once against her cheek as the hands left her and she felt cold air replace the sticky wet feeling of her sick. And then he was gone, and she was alone again, staring up at the ornate coffered ceiling above.

It always came back to him. Malfoy. He had positively identified her an hour earlier, confirming her as Potter's Mudblood. Somehow everything wound up coming back to him, some cosmic thread stitching him neatly into her world. The words pounded in her head through her delirium. It always came back to Malfoy. It always came back to him.

There were loud voices in the room, but she couldn't understand them. It always came back to him.

The ceiling was so beautiful. Just like the molded ceilings at Schoenbrunn Palace, from her last holiday before the war.

" _Crucio_."

*

Hermione supposed it was something of a superiority complex. Her need to know she was better prepared than anyone else in the room. The need to raise her hand before another student's could so much as twitch. The need to be praised most highly by her professors. The incorrigible need to correct others even though she knew it made her unlikeable, because she took a slight, secret pleasure in reminding them that she was more intelligent, more well-spoken, and better-read.

Hermione didn't need to be liked. It didn't matter that people called her a swot. She liked that. At the core of that insult was their knowledge that she was _better_ than them, smarter, going proverbial "bigger places." She recognized this was something of a flaw: her need not just to know she was _better_ than others, but to have them know it, too.

The gradual realization that she was not better tore her up inside.

It did not come all at once. Years later, she would be able to identify the exact moment it started: with a blond boy in green flying robes, spitting the word at her. _Mudblood_.

Her first thought had been that he had called her ugly, and when she found out what the word meant later, she was embarrassingly relieved. Besides, she was quite proud of her Muggle parentage. So she wasn't a wizarding aristocrat like Draco Malfoy. She failed to see how that was important. Muggles, she reminded Harry and the appalled Ron later that evening, often valued lineage as well. She spent the rest of the night trying to explain the princes William and Harry to Ron, which ended in him accusing her of having a crush on the blond William and her throwing a book at him in embarrassed fury before retreating to her room.

The incident nettled her more at the end of the term, after the lore of the Heir of Slytherin had held the school captive for months. But after all, Hogwarts was a thousand years old. Wizards and Muggles had a troubled history in Christendom, Hermione knew, and she was not particularly shocked that one of the school's founders may have attempted to safeguard the castle. Still, the thought began to prickle in the back of her mind.

_You are different._

It came first in phases: it would ripen once a month or so and rip her conscious open to self-doubt and frustration. Then it came in tides: once a day, twice a day, a wistfulness to be half-blood, to be pureblood, to not feel there was an asterisk floating beside her name. She was beginning to realize that she wasn't the brightest witch of her year the way Draco Malfoy was the brightest wizard of his. She was the brightest witch _and also a Muggleborn_ whereas Malfoy could simply be _the brightest_. The feelings that rose within her when she felt this way were hard to describe. Frustration, of course— but something else within it, something that made her feel like she was burning up inside.

Draco Malfoy was a wizard but she, Hermione Granger, was a _Muggleborn_ witch. The distinction could not be divorced from her person. And it wasn't that she wanted it to be— it was who she was. The problem wasn't that her magical prowess only impressed people because she was talented in spite of her Muggleborn status, either. She could stomach that. It was that they thought of her _differently_ because of that status. Abilities aside.

It didn't matter that she was better than them— there existed a certain gaze with which they looked upon her. It would have been the same gaze had she been an average, even poor, student.

Her fourth year, she realized that the status of being what she had long mentally characterized as _different_ was something more dangerous.

"Mr. Weasley."

She had finally approached him in private following the Quidditch World Cup. His presence at the Burrow was sporadic following the incident, but she had crept down the stairs close to midnight when he returned home from the Ministry and Mrs. Weasley had long gone to bed after leaving a warming charm on his plate of food.

"I've been thinking about— about what happened at the campground." _About Draco Malfoy's warning._ _How he had called her a Muggle and seemed to want to help her all in the same breath._ "Why haven't those wizards been caught? Why didn't anyone intervene? Don't those— shouldn't the Muggles have some kind of course of action to justice?"

Mr. Weasley smiled indulgently. "Well, no Hermione." He cut into a potato and brandished it on his fork as he spoke. "Memory modification takes precedence, you know. Can't have the entire Muggle world learn of wizards after a small incident like that."

"They wouldn't necessarily alert the entire Muggle world," Hermione said quickly. "They could be bound to the Statute of Secrecy as well. And besides, the Muggle Prime Minister knows about the wizard world. So does the Queen. I read—"

"It would be unsustainable for every Muggle who accidentally saw a bit of magic to be bound to the Statute, Hermione." Mr. Weasley waved his hand as though this were all rather obvious.

"Every Muggle? This happens— how much?" Hermione was shocked.

"Frequently enough," Mr. Weasley answered. "The Ministry has several departments dedicated to— ah, _handling_ that kind of situation. Mine included."

"And how many are like the campground?" _How many involve_ toying _with them like playthings there for the taking?_

Mr. Weasley didn't answer right away. "A fair few. Nothing major in the past decade."

"Well then why didn't anyone intervene? If it hasn't happened for—"

He looked up sharply. "Hermione, I _did_ intervene. You saw me—"

"But you didn't go let them down," Hermione rushed out in a single breath. She didn't realize how much this had been bothering her until the words left her. "You went to go get Ministry personnel to assess the situation. You didn't go to help them— those people— _down_."

It was as though the air had been sucked out of the room. The golden light from the lantern overhead beat down uncomfortably over them. Hermione was stock-still, rigid, her whole body filled with that well of bottomless, boiling emotion that made her feel—

"Hermione," Mr. Weasley said. His face had gone white. "Are you implying that... well, I'm not quite sure what to say... I did what— I did my best in the moment."

That year, the tide came to consume her more and more.

It wasn't that the way she perceived herself was changing, that much she was adamant about. It was that she was coming to understand that others saw her as being less than. She couldn't find the right word for the way their gaze saw her— second-class couldn't capture the feeling. It was as slightly less than a real person. Slightly less human.

For once, Hermione Granger didn't know how to articulate something. She just knew how it made her feel. A hot, painful emotion that both rose within and enveloped without.

The word that came to rattle in her head was not _different_. It was _worth_. She was not _worth_ what other witches were.

The thought was burning her alive.

*

_August 3rd, 1997._

"You want me to _what_?" Hermione was seated on the spare twin in Ginny's room, where she had neatly arranged herself when the two girls had heard footsteps thudding in steady approach up the stairs. Her wand had not been returned to her and her right hand fisted the thin flannel blanket in its absence. She felt oddly empty without the little zip of her magic humming through her fingertips, into the wand and back again up into her arm.

"We expect you back in the kitchen to heal Mr. Malfoy. Immediately."

Hermione gave a small laugh of dismay.

"I'm afraid I'm serious, Hermione." Molly shot a glare at Ginny, who was wearing an expression of polite incredulity.

"Malfoy can heal himself. I barely scratched him."

"Hermione," Molly now shot her fiery glare at Hermione, which cowed her slightly. Molly generally reserved her temper for her children. "If you think I cannot recognize a fabric cutting charm when I see one— those aren't meant to be used on _people_."

"Barely scratched him," Hermione repeated. The charm had been the first she could think of that wouldn't inflict serious damage, but promised to be inordinately painful. "Simple healing charm should work fine. He can do it on himself, I'm sure. As an adult."

His dismissal of her rankled still. She couldn't help but feel he had gotten the last word, despite her hurling a final slice of the charm at him.

It seemed impossible that his sneering schoolboy arrogance had transferred over to this strange new universe where they were no longer students snipping at each other from across the hall.

"Remus insists," Molly said, her glare not softening. "And I'm afraid I do, too. Consider it to be part of the sincere, verbal apology you are also expected to give."

Hermione was appalled. "He is the _reason_ —" she spat the word. "—Dumbledore—"

Molly cut her off. "Dumbledore offered Malfoy protection, an offer Harry has vouched Mr. Malfoy was ready to take before Severus... well, before Severus arrived. It seems Mr. Malfoy still wants to belatedly accept. We have agreed. His arrival is... timely, considering that we've been practically paralyzed after losing Severus' intel. Look what happened the night they moved Harry." She gave a huff turned sigh, the glare fading from her eyes. "I understand your anger. But the decision regarding Mr. Malfoy is not up to you. You will make a gesture of goodwill. Immediately. He's leaving shortly."

Hermione debated, fisting the blanket more tightly. A pulse of anger gave a dull throb in her chest.

"Immediately, Hermione."

"Fine," she said stiffly. She stood and followed Molly down the stairs. The unfinished wood was rough beneath her bare feet as she clomped angrily down, and she suspected when she went to bed she would find a splinter or two on the pad of her foot.

"Exactly like the last war..." Molly said in front of her, almost to herself. "You poor children."

Hermione didn't feel "poor," "child," and "Malfoy" were compatible terms.

The reason for Malfoy's presence was more or less what she had known it must be the moment she walked through the door, even before Ginny confirmed it with her upstairs after Tonks gruffly deposited her in the tiny corner bedroom. It was almost an instinctual understanding when she saw him bound beside the Burrow table— like she had had an inkling this might happen after Dumbledore's death when the war began in earnest.

 _Don't be absurd_ , she corrected herself. It was all hindsight that was making her feel she had suspected this could happen. She brushed the thought away.

Yet still... it was like she had known immediately the reason that he was at the Burrow when she saw him sitting there. Draco Malfoy, double agent. Newly minted spy for the Order. Taking up the stead of his Head of House. Perhaps it was the only reason that made sense, and some subconscious cog had snapped into place.

Either way, she had wanted to get her licks in while she could. And she had.

Tonks was standing in the dim living room when they reached the ground floor. She was holding Hermione's wand and tapping her index finger against it nervously. Hermione winced. Being without her wand was uncomfortable, but watching another witch fidgeting with it was infinitely worse. It was an extension of her person, and although she could not feel Tonks' finger, watching someone handle it sparked intense discomfort in her gut.

Tonks turned and her finger abruptly stilled as they approached. She held her hand out quickly to return Hermione's wand, looking slightly guilty.

"Thanks," Hermione said. She turned and flicked it in the direction of a small table candle in the corner, extinguishing and relighting the flame. Just to feel the magic course through her again. She hadn't been without her wand since before she turned seventeen almost a year prior.

"Remus is in there with him now, the others are waiting outside. Hestia left already." This was mostly addressed to Molly, who gave a nod and folded her arms across her chest. Tonks looked at Hermione, her face much more sympathetic than it had been when she was marching her across the very room they were standing in an hour previously. "I'm sure that was a nasty shock to have today Hermione, for us too. Believe me, when he turned up here... and I'm sorry for everything you've gone through today but—"

"But your behavior was highly uncontrolled and unproductive," Lupin interrupted. He was standing in the archway leading to the kitchen with his hands in his coat pockets. "Not that _some_ of the Weasleys weren't actively trying to do the same when they came downstairs to find us speaking with him."

He gave Hermione a small smile.

"That wasn't characteristic of you," he said, smile turning a little wan. "But I understand that the times are making everyone react emotionally."

Hermione gave a little nod. His kind but disappointed tone made her suddenly feel like she was back at Hogwarts on one of the rare occasions she had been held back after class. Ashamed and small. Then she recalled who was in the other room and her remorse evaporated.

"I'll explain more directly to you tomorrow," Lupin heaved a sigh. "It's a different situation than with Severus, although perhaps that will make the outcome of our arrangement... more predictable. Regardless," he dropped his voice low. "It is imperative that Mr. Malfoy has no reason to turn on us. That he does not feel we are hostile to him or likely to punish him for any mistakes he may—" he held his hand up as Hermione opened her mouth furiously— "or may _not_ have made. He needs to feel he is more on our side than theirs— and for that he needs to be confident we won't throw him in prison the moment the war ends."

Hermione could feel her nostrils flaring. "So that's it, then? No punishment for letting Death Eaters into the castle? For nearly killing—"

"Hermione. Enough. As I said, I will explain more directly tomorrow what the situation is. Right now you are to apologize to Mr. Malfoy and heal the wounds you gave him as a gesture of good faith. And bear in mind," he stepped closer and dropped his voice even lower. "That Malfoy has not been a man with many options for almost a year. When he was given the option to defect, he leapt at it. That may help you find some sympathy for your apology."

Hermione nodded curtly and stepped forward, approaching the kitchen archway. Tonks caught her arm and she turned around.

"We'll be in here," Tonks said. "In case we're needed to intervene." Hermione wasn't sure if this was meant to comfort her or warn her. "And do a good job of it, Hermione. He's got somewhere to be after this."

She gave another curt little nod before turning and walking stiffly towards the kitchen's entryway. The ceiling lantern was still beaming down on the wooden table below, chairs askew, a forgotten traveling cloak draped carelessly over the back of one. The brightness felt far too strong for the hour. Inappropriate.

Hermione moved her eyes over the table, and there he was. Standing by the large window on the opposite side of the room with his back to her. He had his arms crossed— or maybe he was cradling one— the fabric of his black t-shirt stretched against his broad shoulders.

The air of the room seemed to vibrate for the two seconds she stared at the back of his white blond head before a floorboard creaked under her foot and he turned. His grey eyes met hers.

In the swelling silence that followed she took him in. The blood on his face had been smeared away, leaving only a few rusty streaks down his jaw and neck, perhaps the work of a hasty _scourgify_. He was pressing a bloody white cloth to his right forearm. His black t-shirt had been Magicked back together. Her eyes moved from his shoulder back to his face, where she was surprised to see his eyes clearly assessing her. Interested. Calculated. Unmoving from her face.

She cursed herself for having broken eye contact before even realizing they had been making it.

The overhead light glared down upon them unforgivingly. The silence between them stretched on a moment longer as Hermione held Malfoy's gaze, assessing him right back, albeit disdainfully. He looked exhausted, the usual definition of his cheekbones now sharp against his skin, and dark circles sunken beneath his eyes. Yet he seemed... taller than she recalled. Somehow larger. Standing in the Weasley's kitchen, he seemed to physically take up more space than even Ron, even though she knew Ron must still be taller.

It felt surreal to be suddenly alone with him: the room too bright, the space between them buzzing with the inevitable fact that in a moment she would have to cross it. Approach him. The expectation lay heavily in the air between them.

Hermione didn't want him to speak first. "I'm supposed to—"

"I know, Granger. Are you planning to do it from all the way over there?" He smirked.

Hermione ground her teeth as she marched forward, grabbing one of the table chairs and spinning it around with a grinding squeak across the floor boards. She pushed it forward to face him. He watched her, smirk pricking upwards slightly more.

"Sit." What about this could possibly be amusing him?

Malfoy turned and huffed a pained exhale as he sat, legs sprawled before him as he leaned back into the chair. She walked around to face him. He tossed the bloody cloth that he had been tending to his arm with onto the table and she couldn't help the disgusted _tch_ that fell from her lips.

"We _eat_ there." She waved her wand and it disappeared.

He didn't deign to reply. Hermione grit her teeth again. She shuffled over to his right side, fighting the awkwardness of standing by his seated form, looking down at his platinum hair. His posture was leisurely, his legs spread out before him and head tipped back. Only his left hand, gripped tightly into a fist on his lap, revealed he wasn't perfectly at ease. She felt her breath catch at the sight of the curve of the Dark Mark just barely visible where his forearm pressed against his pants.

"Arm first," she said, aware that the living room was likely listening to the apologetic proceedings of the kitchen, and making an immense effort not to snap the words.

He looked up at her. "Aren't you forgetting something, Granger?" The little smirk had not left his features.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Granger," he dropped his voice to a whisper. "I've been led to believe you also intend to give me an _apology_. Is that before you patch me up, or after?"

Hermione stared down at him. Her face suddenly felt frozen by the fury that surged up at his words. He stared back up, amusement fading into a curled lip as he looked away and snorted, gaze fixed out the window before him.

"Save it, Granger." Malfoy's voice was now tinged with tiredness. "I really don't give a fuck."

 _Muffliato_ , she thought, aiming her wand at the archway across the room before she jerked her wand against his throat, prodding sharply into his Adam's apple. He looked up in surprise.

"Well you _should_ ," she hissed. His eyes darkened, then went perfectly blank, as though all the emotion had been sucked into his pupils and disappeared. "You _should_ give a fuck what I think about you."

His eyes remained infuriatingly calm. She stared at him hard for a moment longer, pressing her wand harder into his neck. Finally she flicked her wand at the archway again.

"I hope you accept my apology, Malfoy," she said loudly. "I'm afraid I let my emotions get the best of me."

He silently rolled his t-shirt sleeve upward and proffered his arm.

She breathed in once, deeply, exhaling before she pressed her wand to the skin of his forearm. At first she simply pushed its tip against the edge of the long incision, now a thin seam of dried blood rather than an open wound, but it was hard to draw a steady line across his skin with his forearm suspended in the air between them. She grabbed it hesitantly, placing her hand on the underside of his wrist as she carefully drew her way up, focusing on the flow of the incantation through her arm and fingers into her wand.

"What exactly did you do to me?" She glanced up to see he was eying the cut curiously. His gaze flicked up to hers and she looked away. "This wasn't quite Dark Magic, Granger."

"Fabric shearing charm. For thin cloth. It cuts cleanly while preserving whatever is underneath it— usually a table, I suppose— I thought its properties might transfer well to skin."

He gave a single bark of laughter that turned into a rather pained cough as she pressed her wand against the incision running up his shoulder.

Hermione worked in silence for a moment, sliding her hand up his forearm for better leverage as she progressed upwards. She realized with a sudden swoop of discomfort that she had never touched him before, save for the time she had punched him. She focused harder on the gentle hum of warm magic through her fingers, running her wand over the cut so first it faded pink, then beginning again at its edge on his forearm so the pink faded away into his pale skin.

She released his arm after a few minutes, satisfied with the incisions on his arm and shoulder. "Tip your head," she said quietly. Malfoy looked up at her for a moment before obeying, tilting his head to the side to give her access to the single cut running from temple to the dip where his neck met his shoulder. He gritted his teeth when her wand pressed into the incision at his temple and gave a sudden shudder. She drew her wand back slightly, horrified, before resuming her healing with feather light touches rather than the hard steady press she had used on his arm and shoulder.

 _Did I hurt you?_ Hermione cringed at the memory, the guilt Molly and Lupin had failed to impart upon her now seeping into her conscience. It had been one thing in the moment. But seeing him attempting to stifle his twitches and flinches under her wand...

She continued the tiny little brushes of her wand to his skin, moving meticulously over the same spot before going further down his cheek.

Hermione moved her head closer when she got to his jaw. The incision ran in a smooth line underneath his jaw bone and down his neck. As she touched her wand to the skin there in gentle motions she snuck a glance at his eyes, which were trained on the clenched fist in his lap.

"What did you discuss with the Order?" The question burst from her mouth before she could talk herself out of asking it.

Malfoy flicked his gaze up at her again, slightly taken aback. He paused, seeming to decide on an answer. "My new position. As I'm certain Lupin told you."

He spat Lupin's name rather bitterly.

"Dumbledore offered you protection?" She moved the light brushes of her wand carefully downwards, running gently over the skin at the top of his neck.

"Yes." It was not an answer that invited further inquiry. She chanced a glance at him and saw he wasn't looking at her, but now had strained his gaze as far as he could in the opposite direction.

She worked in silence for another minute, arriving at the base of his neck where the cut connected to the now-healed skin of his shoulder.

Hermione pulled her wand away and Malfoy snapped his head back, standing abruptly. She took an instinctive step back as he tugged his sleeve down, suddenly aware that looking up at him felt very different from looking down.

She gestured her wand foolishly down at his pants leg, where she could make out a long, dark stain despite the black fabric.

"I'm sure you don't want me to take my pants off, Granger," Malfoy snapped, kicking the chair back towards the table. It clattered jarringly across the floor. "Go tell Lupin his symbolic gesture went swimmingly. And that I'll fucking see him tomorrow."

The anger that had been gradually dissipated reared again, flushing her cheeks. "For someone who's allegedly _defected_ for us—"

"Defected _for_ you?" he turned abruptly back around to face her and stalked forward, crowding her against the wooden table. His features had drawn back into a snarl.

" _For_ you?" Malfoy hissed again. Now it was his turn to raise his wand towards the archway. She hadn't even noticed where he had been keeping it on his person. "Let me be very, fucking clear Granger," he sneered, taking a small step forward, leaning over her. Hermione's thighs bumped against the wooden table before she remembered herself, gripping her wand more tightly and raising it in the space between them. Malfoy didn't so much as glance down at it. "I didn't defect _for_ you. I didn't defect for some fucking noble little purpose, because your Order is so fucking sanct and holy and _good_."

He was spitting the words at her. "I bet that would make you feel so _good_ , Granger. To know that you're fighting for a cause so pure and worthy that it changed the hearts and minds of fucking Death Eaters. You'd find that so fucking _gratifying_ , wouldn't you?"

It was now clear to Hermione that Malfoy's initial irritating smirks had been covering this more insidious emotion. She willed herself not to step back again but couldn't help it as he leaned down even more, fringe dangling against the skin of his temple she healed just minutes before. Her legs hit the table again and she jerked to a stop.

"You know why I'm fucking here, Granger? Because Dumbledore offered to hide my family. So that we aren't killed— fucking murdered— by the same volatile madman my father pledged himself to before I was even fucking born. And you know where I'm going? Right back to where I came from," he growled. "So if you think I'm so fucking _chuffed_ to be here, fighting for the _light_ — fucking think again."

And with that he whips his head away from her, striding out the door, sticking his hand back through the doorframe as an afterthought to catch it before it slammed shut.

*

_March 25th, 1998._

This time, she opened her eyes to find her nose and cheek pressed against the cool marble. She was curled half on her stomach, legs twisted to the side.

A shudder overtook her body. Then another. And another.

She was made of lead.

Her heartbeat had not ceased its painful _thrum, thrum thrum_. It is for this reason that she did not hear the crack, was not conscious of the shrieks and yells around her. Only a tiny, bony hand closing around hers, and explosive pressure from all sides as she was whisked away.


	3. Mudblood

_March 27, 1998._

Daylight in the city had a distinctly muted quality, one Hermione had come to loathe during her months at Grimmauld Place headquarters. Light didn't stream so much as float casually into the window, even the brightest sun diluted by the shadows of surrounding buildings. She was quite unaccustomed to it after six years at Hogwarts, a veritable mountain fortress; and even as a child, the squat semi-detached Tudors and carefully clipped shrubs of the Manchester suburbs allowed an unobstructed view of the sky above. To be so confined, with the sky a mere strip of grey between towering buildings, heightened Hermione's sense that she was enclosed in a strange hell that the Muggles bustling on the streets below headquarters were blissfully unaware of.

The wizards around her seemed equally unbothered by it, as Apparition from headquarters to more remote locations several times a day was not unusual. But no matter how frequently Hermione was sent on an excursion from Grimmauld Place, to call home a place so impervious to the sun, rain, and snow from above made her feel trapped. The canopy of tall buildings caught them all first, a sieve of the heavens: whatever was left to filter through to the city below perverted by the London sky scape.

It was to this thin, diluted light that she had woken.

"Hermione?" Molly's voice had been raspy. A soft, dry hand— so warm— had reached out to take her cheek. It was a motherly gesture and Hermione, confused, had strained to turn her head before Molly made a senseless _shushing_ sound and stood so as to enter Hermione's line of vision.

"There, shhh... Oh, my poor girl— my poor child—" Molly had broken down into heaving sobs Hermione had only heard from her once, months earlier, when they had held a small memorial for Ron.

 _Things must be very bad then_ , she thought blankly before allowing her eyes to fall shut again.

Later when she woke again, Tonks had been there. This time Hermione had turned her cheek to the side successfully, finding her standing by the tall window on the opposite wall, her back to Hermione. Silhouetted against the window's faint light, her form seemed impossibly thin to Hermione. Had she been ill since Hermione saw her last?

When had she seen her last?

The memories poured into her in a single stream. Tonks embracing her goodbye before leaving with Harry. After Ron died. In January. It had been cold and Hermione had tried to feel sorrow at saying goodbye, tried to force her emotions to recognize it could be the last time she ever saw the older woman, to _feel_ something to make the goodbye meaningful— but she had been unable to shake her apathy, relieved when the embrace was over so she and Harry could Apparate away and set up their tent before nightfall.

 _Harry_.

She pushed herself instinctively up to sit before gasping at the searing pain that shot through her left arm.

Tonks whirled around, crossing the room swiftly to Hermione's bed. "Hermione. Lay back, lay back, I'll help you."

Hermione slumped against her pillows with a small cry. Tonks slid a hand between Hermione's shoulder blades and the pillow, taking her right hand as she slowly pushed Hermione up and propped the pillows slightly behind her.

"Tonks," Hermione choked out. She suddenly became aware of the rawness of her throat. Her voice felt coppery on her tongue.

"Don't talk. I'll explain." Tonks grabbed a glass of water that had been sitting on the bedside table. It was more than half empty. Had she been awake before?

She shook her head from side to side like a dog. It felt as if her head had been filled with sawdust.

Tonks pressed the glass to her lips. Hermione gulped gratefully. "You've been out for more than a day. In and out of consciousness. You were at Malfoy Manor, do you remember that?" Her voice was quick, shaking slightly.

It all came back in painful clarity.

"You got Harry out," Tonks said, clearly noticing the horror spreading over Hermione's features. "You did a good job, Hermione. An excellent job." Her voice was trembling. "From what we can tell no information was compromised. You were at the Manor for a little over an hour before we could locate and extract you. I'm sure it feels longer. We have a Healer downstairs. Don't take that off," she added hastily, gesturing to Hermione before turning and bolting out the bedroom door.

 _Don't take that off?_ Hermione glanced down at the blanket before her and was surprised to find her left forearm arm heavily bandaged with stiff black gauze. That explained the sudden stab of pain she had felt when she tried to push herself upwards, she supposed. Black gauze was heavily charmed-- the Order had it in limited supply.

Hermione knew she should have been more bothered, but she found herself oddly disconnected from her body at the moment. Every part of her ached. Her muscles felt like they were made of stone, far too heavy to move. She rested her neck against the pillows, her mind flying through the disjointed snippets of memory.

She and Harry had been apprehended before they could set wards up. That much she remembered quite distinctly. Their Apparition to what she had assumed was a remote field had activated wards— it must have— because mere minutes after their arrival more _cracks_ of Apparition had popped around them from all sides. Hermione could recall frantically shrieking at Harry to get to her bag, left crucial meters away on a flat patch of grass. They had several emergency portkeys to the alley beside headquarters. She had been parrying the deluge of spells descending upon them as she shouted for him to get to the portkey, her terror heightening with each slash of her wand.

It had felt surreal, an impossible probability: the nightmare scenario she had been hiding in the back of her mind for years actualizing before her very eyes. Harry dying before he could get to Voldemort.

Her adrenaline had seized her, shrieks for Harry to get to the portkey inadvertently rushing out of her mouth as her wand moved in the kind of elegant, swift, rapid swishes she had attempted in practice duels, but never properly achieved. By the time a stunning spell had finally bowled her over, Harry had been long gone.

Hermione closed her eyes. She was missing a piece to this. Harry wouldn't have left her. He would have cut off his own arm before he left someone behind like that. Left _her_ behind like that.

She groaned and twisted her head to the side. The images were splintered into incomprehensible fragments in her mind, no logic to their sequence.

*

"The wound is cursed." The healer had an austere square face, with heavily lined eyebrows and burgundy lipstick. Hermione wondered if the mole on her cheek had been penciled in. It always amazed her how most of the Order had seemed to maintain a degree of normalcy despite the war; despite the death, the daily uncertainty. Almost half had continued their regular jobs so as not to arouse suspicion when the Ministry had fallen. The healer waking up in the morning to put on makeup in her bathroom mirror and Hermione lying unconscious in an empty room at Grimmauld Place could not possibly exist within the same reality.

But then, this wasn't the first time she had realized how maladjusted to the war she was compared to others.

"Okay," she responded blankly.

Molly was pacing behind the healer. Tonks was standing at the foot of her bed with her arms crossed casually, but her tapping index finger betrayed her malaise. Both of them looked to Hermione with expressions of utmost pity at her indifferent response.

"I wondered if it might be," she added, catching Molly's gaze. The healer raised her eyebrows in thinly veiled disbelief. "I've read about it," she said defensively, feeling the healer didn't believe her. "Magic festering in—"

"Festering isn't the right word for it," the healer said bluntly, now pressing her rather stubby fingers to the flesh around the wound. Hermione gasped and attempted to wrench her arm back, but the healer continued her work, gripping her forearm a little tighter. "It's embedded. It's not like a disease, or an infection. More like a tattoo of sorts, if tattoos could hold magical properties."

"Similar to the Dark Mark?" Tonks' question would have been asked by Hermione had she not been grinding her teeth together to keep from crying out as the healer began tapping her wand directly to the letters carved into her arm.

"Yes and no," the healer frowned. "The Dark Mark is not a wound, and its magical properties create a connection between the actor and recipient of the spell. The Mark is inert and for all intents and purposes, a-magical unless activated by the actor." She gave several more decisive taps of her wand, frowning at something Hermione could not see. "There is no connection between this... _cut_ and the individual who made it. No spell involved, either. Whatever is now embedded in your arm came from the blade that inflicted the wound." She looked quizzically at Hermione, her face not softening. "Do you recall what it looked like?"

"No."

It was the truth. Her memories of the Manor were still images: Malfoy's blond head impassively looking down at her, the beautiful ceiling, the black marble. She remembered the beginning of receiving the wound— but the memory was blinding agony, blankness of thought; during the tiny respite in between letters, the terror of being certain this was simply the beginning of a very long, painful death.

The healer pursed her lips. "It will be difficult to be sure exactly what's wrong with the wound, then. It may very well heal in time with proper treatment. But I'll be frank, Ms. Granger, very few injuries in this war have presented a clear path to healing with our usual treatments. Wounds like this would normally have a team of healers assigned, and very often be prescribed a potion tailored specifically to the needs it presented. We don't know what type of blade inflicted this, nor do we have a proper understanding of the magical properties your wound is presenting.

"You may have noticed, Ms. Granger, that the cut has not recommenced bleeding, but nor has the open flesh dried or scabbed as a normal wound would. Your body is no longer reacting to the wound: neither to heal it, nor to be disturbed by its presence. Additionally," she gave a very hard rap against the _M_. Hermione cried out this time at the agony that shot through her arm. "There's a high quantity of magical currents concentrated in each of the... letters. Like I said, the magic isn't 'festering,' for lack of a better term. It's not an infection. The magical currents aren't being generated by the wound itself, which makes me wonder if they're coming from you."

Molly stopped pacing. The opposite of inert, Tonks was now tapping her index finger so rapidly it was a blur.

"What do you mean, coming from me?"

"I can't be sure yet. But the magic keeping the wound open— it has to be yours. You must be generating it. The wound is not. It's similar to a Muggle magnet. Muggles have what they call—"

"I know what a magnet is," Hermione snapped. She finally tore her arm back, cradling it carefully against her chest. She was appalled. Her own magic, keeping her skin split open. It felt like a betrayal. Her mind was whirling.

Half of her didn't trust the healer. There were limited tools available at Grimmauld Place, and the healer could do little more than conjecture, Hermione knew. She wanted a second opinion, like Muggles did when they were diagnosed with something grave. There was a phrase burned into her head from so many conversations between her mother and her friends that she had periodically been privy to, at dinner parties and on the phone. _"We're getting a second opinion."_ For their elderly parents, their infertility, the early stage cancer they were hoping was an error of the machine.

But Hermione was no longer living in a world where second opinion could be sought.

Then it hit her. A piece to the tangle of memory she had not had time to comprehend the gravity of.

"Our _friend_ ," she said suddenly, looking to Tonks. "He was there. He may be able to help us identify the type of blade, or wound, or curse— we can ask him, can't we?"

Even as the words left her mouth, she knew what the answer would be.

Tonks' expression was grave. She glanced at the healer, who was looking at Hermione expectantly, dark eyebrows raised. "No. We can't. Healer Boot, could I get you downstairs to write your assessment on paper?"

The two women departed, Healer Boot shooting a final glance at Hermione before closing the door. The second she disappeared Hermione whipped her head to Molly, brown eyes wild.

Molly looked troubled. "We don't know what Malfoy's status is," she said in a wholly unnecessary stage whisper. "We have no reason to believe his status as a double agent was uncovered, but we are more than certain the Malfoys and Lestranges are being punished for your escape. We've heard nothing from him."

Hermione exhaled, letting her head drop heavily onto the pillows. She felt quite blank at the news. The image of his face leaning over hers surged forward in her mind. The searching, yet empty look in his grey eyes. His mouth moving soundlessly over her. His white blonde fringe, usually so neatly swept back, had fallen forward, dangling in the air between them. It was the first time she had seen him since Christmas.

Malfoy's presence at the Manor felt surreal: the life she had only heard indirectly about during strategy sessions. Hermione realized she had never seen him acting the part of a Death Eater.

He seemed to exist everywhere and nowhere all at once. He was inextricable from her memory of Hogwarts, yet she struggled to remember what he had been like in school beyond little fragments of his arrogant boasts and sneering insults. Malfoy's name was a permanent fixture of Lupin's strategy sessions and the Order's plans, but only rarely could he be seen striding through the halls of Grimmauld Place. When her mind conjured his mien as had occasionally happened when she lay awake until the coming dawn slowly processed out her window, his sharp grey eyes were his most prominent feature. More often than not, however, he averted his gaze from hers, face inclined towards his small black notebook when she entered a room, or addressing Lupin rather than her during the few planning sessions he could attend. Even when he couldn't avoid giving her some passing greeting, he preferred to nod and shift his gaze over her head rather than meet her eyes. She had often wondered if this was a function of his needing to employ Occlumency so often; if it simply became exhausting to make superfluous eye contact.

He was there when she was writhing in agony on the marble floor he would someday inherit, but unreachable now in the aftermath.

"You think they're being punished?"

Molly's lips pursed. "We ended up sending a house elf to rescue you. We believe You-Know-Who was already alerted as to your whereabouts. He would certainly have been angry that Harry Potter's traveling companion— a rather well-known member of the Order at that— had escaped before he had the chance to perform Legilimency on her. It would certainly explain Malfoy's absence."

Molly had long ceased calling Malfoy "Mr." As had Lupin.

"What if he's questioned? He knows—"

"The risk is no greater than it was with Severus," Molly looked tense. "And Lupin has assured me that Malfoy is an almost prodigal Occlumens."

Hermione, who had heard Lupin speak about Malfoy's Occlumency capabilities, knew Molly was exaggerating emphatically, as she often did when she was particularly emotional. Malfoy's Occlumency abilities had never been called "prodigal," by Lupin or anyone else.

"And how long has it been since we heard from him?"

"The last communication was when he let us know where you were being held."

*

It had been a long time since Hermione felt a sense of peace.

The war came in blows; the Burrow being compromised, Ron's death, the discovery of the false Horcrux, the episode at Malfoy Manor. With each incident, she found herself crippled for days. Sometimes physically, but always emotionally. It was like each time one of the seams holding her life together broke, she was simultaneously more apathetic and more angry. More dispassionate towards the war, apathetic towards achieving victory; but angry at everything.

Hermione's anger was a beast she had been grappling with for years. It was becoming difficult to control.

Because Hermione relied on rules, categories, and distinctions to organize her life, she had come to think about it this way: the setbacks of the war made her apathetic, while the war itself enraged her. When they lost a crucial Order member, when Molly squeezed her hand before she went off on a mission, when she reflected on her parents— Hermione felt empty. She did not desire for the war to end the same way the others did. Hermione dreamt still: of being Minister of Magic, of holiday in Paris, of the day she received her OWL result. But she saw no future for herself in the reality she inhabited: the reality that had gone to war. Her dreams were abstract and nebulous; moments of happiness stolen from universes that had long been impossible.

Other aspects of the war built up the rage that had been slowly bubbling inside her for years.

*

The third time Hermione woke up that day, it was to darkness.

She sat bolt upright, blanket falling away from her chest, ignoring the stabbing pain from the pressure on her left arm. Someone— some _thing_ — was in the room. It was now pitch dark, save for the window's faint glow from the streetlamps outside. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the small amount of light it cast in the room: making out the predictable shadows of the dresser, the long curtains, her bedside table. Hermione's chest heaved as she looked around wildly.

A sudden motion in the periphery made her whip her head back in the direction of the window. The left side curtain split in two, and Hermione inhaled just before—

" _Silencio_ ," a voice hissed as the scream bubbled up in her throat. The dark shape that had split away from the curtain stepped forward. "Merlin, Granger."

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, her breath rising and falling rapidly in her chest. He'd come to hurt her. To take her back. Her good arm flew under her pillow instinctively for her wand—

—which had, of course, been lost at the Manor.

"Be quiet," Malfoy said exasperatedly, flicking his wand. The bedside lantern erupted with light, blinding her momentarily. When her vision cleared, Malfoy was standing about a meter from her bed, twirling his wand in the air, looking down at her with the same hard, calculated look he had that day in the Burrow all those months ago.

He caught the wand between his middle finger and thumb before flicking it again in her direction. Her gasping breaths were now loud.

She sat straight and alert in bed, drawing her neck and chin up. Reason returned to her— of course Malfoy was not there to bring her back to the Manor.

She gazed at him, shifting her weight heavily onto her right arm and correcting her posture. In their limited interactions, he always made her feel she needed to prove her strength to him; she could not shake the feeling he was attempting to get under her skin, test her, trick her into revealing something crucial and vulnerable about herself. It was probably just juvenile instinct left over from Hogwarts. But when he looked at her like this— like he was trying to absorb every particle of her face, expression, delve inside her— she wasn't so sure it was her old wariness of him.

"Fucking hell, I'm not going to hurt you. But you'll send the Order running if you sound like I am—" he recommenced twirling his wand between his fingers, avoiding her gaze— "actively trying to kidnap you."

Hermione exhaled sharply. She was distantly conscious that her damaged muscles were screaming in protest at the effort it was taking to keep her upright in this position, but she certainly didn't want to lay back down and emphasize how truly vulnerable she was in that moment. Wandless, injured, exhausted. The soft light of the small lantern cast him in dim golden light and shadow, accentuating the sharp cheekbones of his face, the pearly sheen of his blond hair, neatly swept back once more. Unlike the last time she had seen him.

Malfoy turned that hot, calculated stare back to her, this time meeting her gaze.

"How are you?"

The question took her aback so much she moved her mouth soundlessly, as though still _silencioed_.

Malfoy averted his eyes again, looking at his twirling wand.

"I'm fine," she rasped. Malfoy opened his mouth as if to speak, then swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. His eyes never left his wand, a blur of dark, glossy wood in the faint light of the lantern. He caught it between his middle finger and thumb again, slinging it smoothly into the holster around his waist.

Still he would not look at her, instead focused on the wall above her head.

They stayed there for a few moments, Hermione's breaths stilling in her chest. His eyes were fixed on the wall. Hers were fixed on his face-- mouth a flat line, eyes unreadable.

It was... awkward. She felt a prickling discomfort at his suddenly being so close to her, uncertain why he had come. Certainly not to apologize.

Did she feel she was owed an apology? Hermione suddenly realized that she did. Even if he hadn't had a choice. She wanted to hear it from him: _I'm sorry you were tortured in my home. I'm sorry I_ had _to stand there and watch. I'm sorry I stood there and watched._

How had he expected her to respond? She wasn't fine. Her muscles were exhausted from the trauma of the Cruciatus, so much so that it was difficult to move. And more than that— there was an open wound on her arm, which she could not seek proper medical attention for. Perhaps never would receive proper medical attention for.

"What—" she asked, because she did not know how to interact with him unless she was angry with him or demanding information from him. "—Malfoy, what happened to your family?"

The question was irresistible after her conversation with Molly. The remainder of the afternoon she had been plagued with vague images of the Malfoys sprawled on the marble just as she had been, surrounded by pools of their own sick, shaking uncontrollably. Wondering how Voldemort inflicted his wrath upon followers that had made one mistake too many.

He looked down at the blankets, her resting left arm draped carefully across her lap. "Nothing. We didn't tell him."

She gaped incredulously and he snorted. "Granger, did you think I was going to let your mind be read? Let him find me stamped across all your memories of headquarters? I told my father we should—" but he cut off abruptly, catching himself. Hermione saw his Adam's apple bob again, and again, as if swallowing rapidly.

He was uncomfortable. Hermione wasn't sure she had ever seen it so clearly before, and she wasn't about to lose her advantage. "So where have you been? It's been three days."

"Two days," he corrected quickly.

"Two. Whatever. Why the—" she shifted uncomfortably at the word, trying not to allow her voice to elevate itself an octave. "— _fuck_ haven't you been here? You realize how many gaps there are in our intel? How _concerned_ we've been about a possible information leak?"

Malfoy seemed to have no intention of answering her questions. He reached towards the holster around his hip as if to grab his wand again, then thought better of it. He looked down at her on the bed, and she was reminded irresistibly of the day at the Burrow when he had stood up so abruptly she was shocked by his height beside her. Shocked at the prospect of looking _up_ at his features.

"Well anyways, Granger," he smiled bitterly. "I'd better be going. Don't tell Lupin I stopped by, yeah?" He turned swiftly, stalking towards the door and pulling it open.

"Why?" He didn't answer, continuing his strides.

"Malfoy," she cut in sharply. He paused this time, silhouetted against the faint grey light of the hall. "The healer thinks the wound is cursed. What did— what did you aunt use?"

He paused, his back to her. "I don't know, Granger. I can try to find out, but inquiry is... unwise." His shoulders were tense.

"I know."

"You said cursed?" he turned back around to look at her curiously. This time, meeting her eyes directly.

"The healer said... my body is no longer reacting to the wound," she told him, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed. "I'm not bleeding, but I'm not healing. And in the— the letters she made— there's magic. And the healer thinks it's mine." Her voice cracked slightly, and she cursed herself for bringing it up.

There was a pause. Malfoy turned his head back towards the darkness of the hall. The gentle glow of the lantern illuminated the back of his head and neck, strikingly pale above his high black collar. "I don't know, Granger. If I can find out, I will." Another pause. "Obviously it's nothing mortal." And he strode out the door.

Hermione let herself fall back against the pillows, her body practically pulsing with the exertion it had taken to keep her upright. She closed her eyes as his footsteps faded.

"Granger."

Her eyes flew back open and she turned on her side to look at him, too exhausted to sit back up. He had pushed the door back open just before it shut and now stood with his aristocratic features fully illuminated by the lantern's glow.

"They told you—" his voice was flat. "They told you I reported where you were as soon as you arrived? That you were there for an hour after that?"

It was a question, but it held a plaintive quality Hermione wasn't sure how to understand. She was exhausted. She did not understand why he had come, as he clearly had not apologized nor explained more about the situation to her. Malfoy, as always, seemed overwhelmingly present, yet ultimately absent.

"Yes... well, Molly told me it was you who told them where I was."

"Did you know you were getting out, Granger? Or did you think you might— not make it out?"

Hermione furrowed her brow. Nothing about this interaction made sense.

"I thought I was going to die, Malfoy."

Another pause. He turned his face back towards her, his features barely discernible through the faint light of the bedside lantern.

"Towards the end I thought you were too, Granger."

And with that, he shut the door abruptly, the lantern extinguishing itself simultaneously.

*

**A/N:**

**Thank you to the people who have read this fic so far-- but honestly my plan was not to put it on WattPad before I got to a certain point in the plot, so I feel an author's note is in order.**

**First, thank you to carmenxox for giving me feedback on this chapter! Seriously, her fics and tiktok presence give me life.**

**Second, this story is going to be very different from the state of affairs in the first few chapters. The prologue-ch. 5 is mostly going to be set up. This won't be your average Draco Malfoy spy fic... so please don't be alarmed when things start to take a turn.**

**Finally, if you're reading this as of the day I wrote this note (2/6/21) I appreciate you starting this fic so much, and sincerely apologize for how short it is. I promise things are going to get a lot spicier-- and a lot more original-- by ch. 10.**

**Follow me on tiktok if you want to see me fangirl over other dramione fics-- @grovergirl12.**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	4. Magnets

  
  
  
_March 31, 1998._

"Alright, Hermione," Lupin waved his hands in false grandiosity at the display of slim white boxes before him. Hermione remarked that his smile was quite forced across his pale face. Like Tonks, he seemed to have thinned since the last time she saw him. "Let's give it a go, shall we?'

They were standing in the basement kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Hermione's forearm was still bandaged with the stiff black gauze. Healer Boot's assessment had held more and more merit as the days dragged on and no scab appeared on Hermione's wound. She had debated Muggle stitches, but the thought of sewing her skin— fine fibers interlocking painfully with her open, unhealed wound— raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

She gave Lupin a gracious smile. "This is making me feel like I'm eleven again," she laughed awkwardly, stepping closer to the boxes.

Except it wasn't. When Hermione had crossed the threshold of Ollivander's shop before her first year at Hogwarts, her magic had hummed within her fingers at the mere proximity of the wands in their boxes. Their cores had been calling out to her: knowing she was wandless, and seeking a mistress.

Now, mere inches away from the dozen or so boxes of Ollivander's last wands, Hermione felt nothing. She hadn't for days, but had chalked it up to her fatigue, the absence of her wand. It cut deeper than the wound on her forearm; she had been hoping that the prospect of a new wand would invigorate the magical currents within her. Instead, she stood before the boxes feeling the same way she had felt in jewelry stores with her mother: bashful of the contents of the boxes, expected to _oo_ and _ah_ with a reaction she could not feel within herself, terrified of disappointing the beaming individuals around her.

Masking her growing unease at the feeling of utter lifelessness from the boxes before her, Hermione pretended to select the most captivating one by pulling a box from the lower left corner. She gingerly removed the lid.

"Elm, 9.5 inches, unicorn hair." Bill Weasley, the one to whom the crucial looting of the boxes could be attributed, was standing a few meters behind Hermione. Order members lost wands frequently, and a wand choosing you rather than stealing a wand from one of the Dark prisoners maintained morale and magical prowess tenfold. He eyed the box she had chosen furtively, as though he could tell she felt no hum of magic within.

As if he knew it was about to fail her.

"Unicorn hair," she repeated, as though the prospect interested her. Taking the slim wand in her fingers, she held it before her face, inspecting with an air of utmost curiosity.

Really, she was praying to feel something within it before she gave it a wave. Even if it was the mere static sting she felt when she touched Harry or Ron's wands.

It was unavoidable. Hermione took an imperceptible breath, rolling the glossy wood in her right hand before assuming her usual grip. She gave it a brisk wave before her, attempting to conjure a bouquet of daffodils, something she had been able to do with ease since third year.

Nothing. No bouquet.

Lupin and Bill seemed mildly taken aback, but said nothing, Lupin merely selected a box at random and passed it to Hermione. She took it, struggling not to hastily tear open the lid.

In truth, she could feel the horror she had felt for days creeping up steadily inside her. It wasn't simply that she hadn't been able to conjure the bouquet with the new wand— she hadn't felt even the slightest zip of magic running through her arm, attempting to connect with its unicorn hair core. It had been as though she were waving a tree branch.

"Oak, 10 inches, Phoenix core," Bill said, now leaning a step closer to Hermione. He was paying attention much more closely.

She said a silent prayer to no one before waving the wand, attempting something even simpler. _Wingardium leviosa,_ directed at the parchment scroll lying on the kitchen table just before the boxes.

Nothing.

Lupin and Bill exchanged looks, and Hermione felt a prickle of anger bubble up inside her. Why not look at her? The childish thought rose within her. She was the one who had failed to create even the slightest reaction with two different wands. Why look at each other rather than her? Treat her as though she weren't part of the conversation?

 _Wizards_ , she thought bitterly.

Bill cleared his throat. "Hermione," he said, turning away from Hermione as he stepped forward and selected another box, ragged scar shining under the overhead light of the kitchen. "Try this one. Willow, 7.5 inches, unicorn hair. Tell us exactly what you feel when you try it. And the spell you're attempting."

Hermione took the box from him, steadying her breaths, refusing to let her malaise be betrayed. She opened the white lid and thrust it at Bill, mock impatiently.

" _Expecto patronum_." Slughorn telling her in his office that he wouldn't be surprised if she became Minister of Magic one day.

No otter. No vapor. No blissful hum of magic flowing through her fingers.

"Something simpler," Lupin coaxed. She glared at her hand clutching the wand, fighting the curl tugging at her lip. She would not appear angry. She would not be ruffled by this setback.

 _Hermione Granger did not do setbacks_.

She grit her teeth. " _Wingardium leviosa_ ," she verbalized it this time, moving her hand in the swish and flick motion she had perfected mere weeks after she received her first wand.

Nothing.

Bill, who had been unable to turn to face Hermione during her attempts at basic spellwork, finally looked at her, leaning his back against the table with the boxes. A few collapsed backwards from their neat pyramid as he pressed against them, crossing his arms. He was unbothered. "Hermione," he said gently. "I know this is difficult, but we need you to be very honest with us right now. What does it feel like when you touch these wands? Attempt to use them?"

"Nothing," her voice was strangely choked. She cursed herself. She despised when her emotions betrayed her like this. "It feels like waving a quill in the air. I don't know... I don't know what's wrong with me."

Hermione looked to Lupin, the only authority figure in the room. He had assumed Madeye's senior role after his passing, the person who was supposed to make the world right when it was unjust—

He merely stared back at her sadly.

—but of course, Lupin had been powerless to either punish or rectify for a long time now.

"Let's try your other hand," Lupin said, sober expression unchanging.

Hermione gave a curt nod of her head, changing the willow wand to her other hand. _Swish and flick_. This time, the parchment on the table tugged upwards as if shifted by the slightest breeze. A sudden zap of magic rushed through Hermione's fingers— but mostly, the current concentrated itself on the underside of her forearm, beneath the black gauze.

Hermione gave a growl of frustration and threw the wand across the room. It clattered loudly against a cauldron by the stove. Lupin jumped in her peripheral vision, eyes moving from the _clang_ of the wand across the room back to her face. Hermione longed to kick the table in front of her, to scatter the boxes with a sweeping motion, to smash every mug and cup and plate—

Lupin exhaled slowly. Bill looked uncomfortable.

"Hermione," Lupin said quietly. "I take it the spellwork felt... different in your non-dominant hand? In the wound?"

"Yes." She bit the word out.

"Yes to which?"

"Yes to both," she snapped, running her hands across her face. Her deep brown curls spilled haphazardly over her shoulders, tousled from days of lying in bed. She hadn't showered with shampoo and conditioner since before she left to go horcrux hunting with Harry-- standing in the Grimmauld Place kitchen, she suddenly realized what a mess she must be. Her frame was usually slim and of average height, generally an inch or so taller than other girls her age. Now she must veritably appear wasted, drained, hair a greasy tangle that would need magic to tame. She was ruined from the past six months, inside and out.

She kept her hands covering her eyes for a long while. Bill left the room, murmuring something to Lupin as he exited. His steps grew faint until they disappeared.

Finally Lupin spoke.

"We need another assessment from Healer Boot about this development. And possibly a second healer, if Mauricius is recalled from New Castle in the next few days. This is... most disturbing indeed." Lupin looked at her with solemn concern. "Sometimes, Hermione, the victims of the Cruciatus have weakened abilities after their encounter, at least while still recovering. But this is... quite the anomaly, if I'm frank."

"You think it's the wound, then." Her voice was bitter. It barely sounded like her own. It was the horror scenario she had been turning over in her mind since Healer Boot left. Her own magic, turned against her. Inaccessible. Alien.

"Hermione," Lupin said. His voice was urgent, compelling. "Forgive me, but it must be. Healer Boot's observation that it seemed to be a _magnet_ for your magic— and now your abilities not functioning properly— this is not recovery from trauma, Hermione, not from the way trauma is described in any book I've read. Or seen from any friend who has experienced something similar and yes, Hermione," he held up a single hand. "I've seen much worse. You may be familiar with the plight of the Longbottoms, I know you were friendly with Neville. They recovered their abilities in full after a couple days— not that they can ever be allowed to safely hold wands again."

Hermione grit her teeth. She could feel hot tears prickling behind her eyes and she looked up at the ceiling, thankful that Bill had left.

"Lupin," her voice was hoarse. "Lupin, what am I... what am I supposed to do? I can't feel my magic—"

She descended into humiliated, pained sobs. Lupin muffled the room and crossed to place a hand on her shoulder.

*

Hermione would not permit herself to think the word "loss." It was not the _loss_ of her magic, like she saw so many Order members whispering knowingly to each other as she sat at dinner, closeted herself in Grimmauld's library, stepped quietly into the background of her first strategy session back.

She was not suffering from a _loss of magic_. Her magic was within her— she could feel it sometimes, always flickering in her left forearm, painfully concentrated within the incisions left there. It wasn't gone. It wasn't. It was merely trapped, she wanted to scream at all of them. She was a witch, she was a _witch_ , her magic was still more potent than half of theirs combined— it was just trapped within her, prisoner.

Much like she had somehow found herself unwillingly attached to their war. A passenger, caught in a slow motion car crash.

Late that night, when she was sitting alone in bed, rereading _Magick Moste Eville_ despite their now properly destroyed horcrux, a knock sounded faintly at her bedroom door.

Hermione bolted upright, hiding the book under the blanket of her bed. The last time she had had an unsolicited visitor, it had been Malfoy. After he had left, she had fallen back to sleep, exhausted. When she awoke in the morning and berated Tonks about his arrival-- what Voldemort knew, why the Malfoys hadn't alerted him of her presence, why he had been gone for two days-- she had rubbed her forehead in exasperation.

"Blimey, Hermione," she snapped. "How'd you know he was here?"

"Portraits." The lie was easy. She didn't see a logical reason to reveal that he had visited her apparently against Lupin's wishes.

"Well, Remus is unhappy," Tonks had seemed disgruntled, lining up various miniscule bottled potions on Hermione's bedside table for her to take. "Didn't have a good reason for being gone so long after something as major as that-- just said it had been hard to get away." Tonks snorted. "As if it isn't always. Snape used to say the same thing anytime his absence was questioned... which is probably why Remus was so upset. Anyways, all things considered we're glad his position wasn't compromised. Told his father something to keep him from summoning Voldemort immediately. Remus didn't want him near you, said any interaction needed to be on your terms from here on out. Thought it might be-- traumatic."

That explained the night previous.

"Molly said he was the one to-- to tell you where I was." It wasn't a question. Tonks was an anxious wreck of information at all times. It made her highly entertaining and often very useful, especially at times like this. It also meant, however, that Hermione rarely entrusted her with anything personal.

"Yes," Tonks replied. "That little black notebook he's got-- Lupin has the receiving notebook. Any notes Malfoy takes, they replicate themselves in Lupin's, and vice versa. When the Snatchers Apparated to the gates of the Manor, he was the one to intercept them. He wrote Lupin a message immediately."

"And how long was I there after?" Tonks had already told her once. Hermione was curious to see what her second response, when Hermione was properly lucid, would be.

"Half an hour, I'd guess," Tonks lied breezily. "I'm so sorry for it, Hermione, but it took some time to figure out how to extract you-- and this was all before we had located Harry, he Apparated away from the portkey exit almost immediately to try to find you--"

"I know, I know." Hermione had then commenced taking her potions silently, increasingly agitated by Tonks' tapping index finger against the older witch's forearm.

Now, the rapping on her door made her excitedly curious. Could Malfoy be back? But why would he be, she corrected herself sternly. And further, did she really want him to be when she was still wandless, still injured?

She adjusted herself on the bed, sitting up straight and raising her chin. She swept her dark chocolate curls behind each shoulder before answering. "Come in."

The door burst open as soon as she gave her permission and a thin, bespectacled figure walked through. "Hermione," the figure proclaimed the word like a statement, crossing swiftly to her bed.

It was Harry.

He hesitated, seeming unsure whether to sit, stand, or touch her. She opened her arms and he fell into them.

They stayed there for a few moments, both of their breaths heaving. Harry finally pulled away, sitting on the edge of the bed. Hermione scooted over to give him more room, careful not to use her left arm, which was still quite tender.

Hermione noticed Harry staring at it, and quickly swept it under the blankets in discomfort.

"Lupin told me everything," Harry said quietly, moving his face back up to her eyes. She felt a twinge of annoyance. Of course Lupin had told Harry. "Hermione, I am so, so sorry-- I _accioed_ the portkey, it was so fucking stupid but I panicked and I--" he bowed his head into his hands. Hermione was horrified when his shoulders started to shake and she reached her good arm out to touch his shoulder. Merlin knew it wasn't the first time she had comforted him in the past seven years.

"It's alright," she said, her own eyes stinging, hot.

"I thought--"

He didn't need to finish the sentence. Ron's death had impacted them equally, although Hermione wasn't sure what was worse-- being Harry and watching him die, the locket pulling him into the depths of some icy black pond; or being her, casually shadowing Lupin and Kingsley as they formulated strategy for a break in at a Ministry office on a Tuesday afternoon, jumping in horror as Harry stumbled into headquarters screaming about Ron being dead. Both ways had shocked the two of them to their core.

That had been in December. They were different now. Both of them.

They sat on the bed for a long while, Hermione's hand on his heaving shoulder, blinking back her own tears. When she had joined him on the hunt for horcruxes after Ron's death, they had spent many moments like this: mostly silent, some physical touch connecting them. Reminding them that they loved each other.

So long as he had her, Hermione reminded him frequently, he would never be alone.

Harry was the only person Hermione thought might feel the same kind of apathy towards the war as her. So much of his life had been building up to it, so much pressure placed upon him from the very beginning-- he must be feeling like her, like this was the finale of their lives, no future to be had beyond it.

Unlike her, however, Hermione suspected Harry was driven towards victory. There didn't need to be anything beyond that point: but for Harry, there had to be victory over Voldemort.

More and more, Hermione was finding she herself did not feel that way.

They stayed on her bed in silence until Hermione finally slumped back against her pillows, needing no explanation for her aching muscles and persistent fatigue. Harry already knew. When she woke the next morning, he had gone, no note or explanation left with Lupin or Tonks.

She already knew.

*

 _August 4, 1997_.

Hermione couldn't sleep.

She rose gingerly from her twin in the tiny room she shared with Ginny. How long could the Burrow stay this way? There was hardly room for the Weasleys plus her and Harry, let alone the Order members treating it as a temporary headquarters. It was unclear when Grimmauld Place would be cleared, given its connection to both the Lestranges and Malfoys.

But then, Hermione supposed this was now the sort of thing Malfoy would be helping them with.

She stepped delicately down the stairs, wishing she had packed her slippers when leaving her parents' home. But what did you pack for war? Hermione's charmed sack was simultaneously Spartan yet excessive: creature comforts missing, but every book from her childhood room's overflowing bookshelf tucked neatly inside.

The signs of the Order's presence and the war were everywhere. It was not just Molly's clock pointing to _Mortal Peril_ for each of her children: it was the crates of medical supplies pushed up against the living room wall, the folders thick with files on Ministry members suspected of being conduits of information for the other side, the obvious vibration of the wards outside.

Even the wards of the Burrow walls could be felt. Hermione shivered. A silencing charm had been cast across the entire house, making the world feel eerily silent when one was standing outside. As though the individuals inside full of warmth and laughter had been sucked away from your reality the moment you crossed the threshold of the door.

Hermione supposed that was why the night previous she hadn't heard the commotion inside until pulling the handle. Everything was meant to be kept under control during the war-- but the effect was that its moving pieces felt wholly disjointed and disconnected, as though some were the main narrative of the war, the story some proverbial student ought be following, and the others were to be forgotten even by those who lived their lives behind closed doors, in meeting rooms with muffling charms, in strategy meetings with coded names.

Hermione padded softly into the kitchen, flicking her wand at the overhead lantern as she selected a white mug from the cabinet and began filling it with water.

The door suddenly banged open. Hermione gave a shriek of surprise at the intrusion, wand pointed at the figure who had--

She stopped herself. It was Malfoy, stumbling slightly, so disoriented that he hadn't even noticed her in the corner with her drawn wand. He braced himself against the closest chair at the kitchen table, shoulders heaving.

"Malfoy?" She was uncertain how to react. He looked at her, unfocused eyes sharpening into a glare. He righted his posture, straightening up from the chair and drawing himself to full height.

"Is Lupin here?" he was glaring, but at the spot directly above his head. She took a step closer trying to make eye contact, but failed.

"Yes. He's sleeping. I'll--" she had been planning on launching a long inquiry, as well as giving him grief for the way he had spoken to her in this same kitchen the previous day. But suddenly Malfoy swayed heavily, catching himself again on the kitchen chair. His usually pale face looked positively grey.

His shoulders gave another heave, and he vomited on the kitchen floor, facing as far away from Hermione as he could while keeping his hands planted on the chair.

"Lupin!" Hermione called sharply. She strode forwards towards Malfoy before stopping herself, unsure of what to do. Certainly not touch him. "Lupin! Lupin!"

And when Lupin came running, he didn't need to dismiss her. She dashed up the stairs to Ginny's room by herself.

*

**A/N:**

**I promise things are going to get a lot spicier and more interesting in a few chapters-- I just have so much set up to do in the first few chapters before.**

**Thank you to londonscalling98 for her feedback on this chapter! I'm so excited to share with you what I shared with her about where the plot is going.**

**It's 2:06am and this is what I'm doing with my time. Help.**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	5. Subaltern

  
  
  
_October 29, 1993_.

"Professor?" Hermione's hand had been straining in the air for a full two minutes before she finally interjected in the lesson. Professor Burbage had turned warily around.

"Yes, Hermione?"

"I just—" Hermione had always felt uncomfortable questioning wizard teachers. It was something she soon would grow out of. "I disagree with your characterization of WWI and its fallout. I don't think it's how Muggles would describe it."

"Well, Ms. Granger, Muggles aren't by and large aware of the role _wizarding_ society played in the commencement of the war. So I wouldn't expect this have to been part of your— previous education."

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows in indignation. "Forgive me, Professor, but I— to intimate that just because Muggle society doesn't know about wizards—"

"Wizarding society, Ms. Granger."

"Fine, wizarding society." She was flustered at the correction. Hermione fought the humiliation that threatened to darken the blush of frustration she had already been steadily reddening with throughout the lesson. "I just feel you're discounting the Muggle reasons for the war, simply because they weren't aware of wizarding society at the time. Muggles weren't the pawns of wizards, and our— their war wasn't some kind of... shadow or veil for the wizarding war at the time. They weren't _puppets_. It's not like our war was real and _theirs_ was not—"

"Ms. Granger, there was one war, not two. Muggles just didn't know the reason it was being fought."

"No, they do. They do know why the war was fought because they have agency outside of wizarding affairs. There was a series of security alliances—"

There was a snicker behind her. Hermione already knew who it belonged to, refusing to turn around to give him the satisfaction.

"Ms. Granger." There was an element of finality in Burbage's tone. "You know more than I about Muggle society, having lived within it yourself. But all the same, I believe that is hindering your perception of world events. That isn't to say the Muggle _narrative_ isn't important, because of course it is. Why, it's how a little more than half the world understands their reality. But that doesn't make it the absolute truth.

"An important term for us all to remember," Burbage continued, turning her back on the class and flicking her wand at the chalkboard. White cursive curled itself steadily through the air, landing on the chalky green slate of the board. "Is _subaltern_. Subaltern narratives are, of course, necessary to supplementing our understanding of reality and cannot be ignored— but taken on their own, they depict only a shadow of reality. Lived experiences of individuals within the big picture rather than the big picture itself. Individuals who by definition are subordinate to those with decision-making powers.

"We know why Muggles _think_ they went to war," she continued kindly, perhaps feeling a little guilty for responding to her student's enquiry so sharply. "We know how they _felt_ during the war, what their weaponry was like. But they are a shade of reality, not reality itself."

"And _wizarding_ society is the only complete reality? Muggles just live within it?" Hermione's tone was hostile. But her temper felt so fragile these days— constantly sleep-deprived despite her time-turner.

"Why don't we discuss this later in my office?" Burbage smiled at her, not betraying any nerves she may have had at the only Muggleborn in class' obvious disapproval of her lesson.

Hermione bit her lip, looking down at her notes to hide her embarrassment at the professor's clear dismissal. She busied herself taking notes to hide the humiliated feeling prickling behind her eyes, as well as the anger and frustrating bubbling up in her chest: Burbage's words rankled her, she just couldn't quite say why...

"Granger."

She flicked her eyes up at Burbage before letting them fall back to her notes. She didn't stop the furious scribbling of her quill.

" _Granger_."

Harry and Ron weren't in this class with her. Usually Draco didn't bother her unless they were present. It was slightly unfamiliar to hear him hissing her name like this instead of _Potter_.

She shot him a nasty look, whipping her head around. His eyes were amused as he smirked back at her, but as he opened his mouth to speak, she turned back around smugly, dipping her head to the parchment to resume her writing before he could get a jibe in.

" _Granger_." She ignored him again.

There was suddenly a flurry of motion to her left. Hermione picked her head up and parted her lips in horror as Draco Malfoy threw his bag on the table and dragged the empty chair beside her loudly back, plunking heavily down in it.

"Mr. Malfoy," Burbage interrupted her lecture to address him sharply. "Whatever are you—"

"I just needed Hermione's help with notes," his eyes glinted. " _Professor_."

Burbage seemed uncertain, but carried on. Hermione swept her eyes back to her parchment and resumed note taking angrily as Malfoy arranged his own note parchment on the shared table, dipping his long white quill into her ink bottle several times obnoxiously before writing a few words down.

"You know, Granger," he said beside her. She glared at him snootily out of her peripheral vision. He was smirking down at the parchment before him which was just as full of notes as hers. "I agree. Well, with half of what you said. Burbage is a right little fool, isn't she?"

Hermione bit her lip, not deigning to respond.

"All this _cooing_ over how silly Muggles are..."

"Are you about to tell me," she said waspishly. "That you have given up belittling me for having Muggle parents after a year of calling me _Mudblood_?"

His smirk seemed to deepen. "No. Why would I do that?"

 _Don't respond, don't respond, don't respond_. Hermione was taking almost verbatim notes of Burbage's words to ignore him. She satisfied her irritation by reminding herself that if they stood up, she would be a hair taller than him.

"I don't know how you take this class..." his voice had dropped an octave. He leaned his head slightly towards her side of the table. "You hear the way she talks? She's _fetishizing_ you."

"She— what?" Hermione looked up despite herself. His smirk was fixed firmly on his parchment.

"She's _obsessed_ with you Muggles. Like you're a breed of horse. It's ridiculous." His voice was now disdainful rather than amused.

"I'm not a Muggle." She couldn't help herself, goaded by him now.

"Yeah, yeah, Granger. You're not a Muggle. I don't know how you take this class. You have any idea how offended _I_ would be if _wizards_ were being spoken about like this?"

Hermione was now chewing the inside of her cheek to try to keep from grabbing Malfoy's stupid quill and snapping it in two. Who was he to tell her how she should feel?

But at the same time, his words were striking a chord deep within her. The one that had prompted her to raise her hand in the first place. He wasn't wrong— that was what drove her mad.

More than that, she loathed Malfoy for categorizing her as Muggle. _You are different. You are different. They all see me as different and I can't_ —

"You know Malfoy," she said in a low, dangerous tone, narrowing her eyes at the corner of his parchment and pausing the furious work of her quill. "I'm having a hard time understanding exactly why you're in this course."

"Easy E, Granger." His smugness only seemed to be growing. It made her itch with anger. "I know more about Muggles than you think."

*

_April 7, 1998._

Hermione had kept the willow unicorn hair wand. Its short length was subtle to keep on her person, minimizing the chances of attracting attention from Order members eager to know about the status of her abilities.

"Is your magic back, Hermione?" They'd ask excitedly if they spotted the wand in her fingers.

"I'm still recovering," she would reply shortly. _It's not back because it hasn't gone_. The way they asked made her want to curse them into oblivion, cast spells that would split their wands, cripple their hands, make them understand how it felt. To be separated from her wand had always been an uncomfortable feeling: it was not only like bearing herself to the world in a vulnerable way that had become unfamiliar to her after learning she was a witch. Like an appendage was missing. Or as if she had suddenly lost one of her senses and was left to grapple in the world without sensations of light, touch, and sound to guide her.

It was embarrassing how badly she had come to need her magic in the span of six years. But then, she'd had it all her life, hadn't she? Its current within her, spells and wand aside, was part of her biology. A crucial organ.

Without it she felt gutted.

Ironically, it was when Order members pressed her about her lack of magic that it prickled most fiercely within her. When her anger bubbled up inside her, so too did the feeling of magic deep in her core, reaching always into her left arm now and burning painfully in the letters carved into her arm, sometimes lightly tingling its way past the wound and into her finger tips.

After a couple weeks, however, they stopped asking. Sometimes she would notice stray pair of eyes fixed on the black gauze, lips pursed.

She could feel their thoughts. _What a shame_.

 _And she was such a promising Muggleborn, too_.

*

Hermione awoke that morning to intense, aching pain in her abdomen. It was so severe that she actually gasped aloud as she sat up, uncertain exactly what was wrong with her.

She had felt it in her lower back the night before, beginning as a mild ache at dinner and following her doggedly until she as she settled into bed. Hermione had taken to retiring to her room directly after meals, as she was no longer staying up late with Lupin researching and planning.

They certainly hadn't been taking her on excursions outside Grimmauld Place.

The pain had increased, seemingly creeping from her back and curling around her hips to settle deep within her gut. Hermione felt these pangs once every few months or so, although the stress of the war had meant it was quite some time since she had felt it last. Her menstrual cycle was light and infrequent, as all witches' were. It had been one of the most baffling, and perhaps disconcerting, things for Hermione's mother about her daughter's different biology. The impact of magical currents on witches' fertility was one of the most glaring physical differences between Hermione and the daughters of Marie Granger's friends. Hermione had always been largely unbothered by it, reading about magical fertility only sparingly. There were so many other things about wizarding society she wanted to know.

Tucked into bed, she had finally closed her eyes, curled up slightly to ease the discomfort. She was mildly irritated to have her cycle starting when it felt like her body was only just recovered from the Cruciatus. Sleep had taken her quickly.

But now... this couldn't be her period. It was as though something inside her abdomen was being twisted. She fought back a cry as she pulled her legs gingerly over the side of the bed—

There was an uncomfortable stickiness between them.

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth. Something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong.

There was so much blood. It was pooled on the sheet of the bed and she could feel it half dried to the seat of her pajama shorts.

She grabbed the unicorn hair wand out from under her pillow, where she had resumed keeping it despite its essential uselessness to her. Hermione stood, unsure what to do first— get Molly? Was Healer Boot here today? No. She didn't want to see her.

She looked down at herself and felt quite sick.

Something was wrong with her. So very, very wrong.

Hermione grabbed her abdomen, back bent slightly. It was impossible that she was having a miscarriage, but this was always how she had imagined it would feel. What else could it be? Her mind scrabbled desperately at other vague words she associated with feminine health.

Could the Cruciatus have a latent impact on her reproductive organs? No, that was unheard of.

She moaned softly, bending further forward. Finally, with her right hand pressed her stomach, she flicked the unicorn hair wand at the bed with her left. She felt a twinge of magic in her left arm; but the bedsheets stayed the same, dark pool of blood unchanging.

She flicked again, and again, and again, each time the current running weakly through her left arm. Again, and again. One of her flicks lessened the pool some, a sudden surge of the current meeting her fingers— but when she tried to replicate it, nothing.

Hermione sank to her knees and covered her mouth with her fist to muffle her desperate shriek.

 _You're having a Muggle period_ , a little voice in her head needled. _This is your body's period, without the effect of your magical currents. You're having a Muggle period. You're having a Muggle period. You're having_

When she stood up, she realized she had no idea how to get rid of the bloody sheets. Normally she was have _scourgified_ them before giving them to Molly to put in the wash in order to save her the embarrassment of stained sheets. But she couldn't. She couldn't even dash downstairs and wash them herself— she had no ability to activate the charms for Grimmauld's old-fashioned washer.

She wanted to get her mother. But Marie was now Monica. Monica didn't have any daughters, and if she did, they wouldn't be having their first normal period at age eighteen.

Hermione wanted to burst into tears. She could feel them burning up her throat and filling her head— tears for her mother, for her magic, for Harry, for Ron, for the war, for _herself_ — it was all too much. The tide within her rose sharply. She had never felt so utterlyemotional.

_You're having a Muggle period._

She would have to send for help.

*

"Hey," Ginny slid her slender arm around Hermione's waist and Hermione gave a start as her friend squeezed her affectionately. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Hermione sniped, hastily closing her book with an irritated snap.

They were standing in the Grimmauld Place library. Hermione was perusing the shelves for information first about cursed wounds, then about wizarding metals, then about Muggleborns, then about witches' fertility. In that order. She would rather read whatever books the Black family had collected about Muggleborns than confront whatever was happening in her body. To think about the cursed wound's impact on her ability to do magic was one thing. This was... it was humiliating, _dirty_ , base.

"Mum said you were awfully shaken up this morning." Ginny removed her arm, unaffected by Hermione's discomfort.

"You would be too," Hermione said harshly. She caught herself. "I'm on my period, Gin. I'm just... in a bad mood, and all that."

"Well that's no reason to be a _bitch_." Ginny elbowed her teasingly. "At least you got your period, eh? Eh, Hermione?"

"Worried I might be a second Virgin Mary?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind," Hermione said quickly. She pushed the book she had been reading back onto the shelf.

"I know who that is... the mother of that Muggle god." Ginny grabbed the book Hermione had removed back out. "Cheer up, Hermione. I know it's a little uncomfortable but there's no reason to take it out on me." She thumbed through the chapter index thoughtfully. Her freckled face fell into a frown once she understood the implication of its contents: _Bartholomew's Official Diarie of Fatale Cursed Woundes, 1600-1917_. Ginny replaced it quickly on the shelf.

The two witches stood in silence for a moment. Ginny had adjusted significantly better than Hermione to the war, much to Hermione's irritation. It frustrated her to not be superior in anything— but these days it felt everyone was better adapted to the current state of affairs than she. Less affected.

"Lupin sent me for you," Ginny finally said quietly. "He wants you in the parlor room."

"Thanks, Gin." Hermione turned to go, mentally cataloguing the location of the book for later.

"Hermione," Ginny called suddenly. A strange expression had fallen over her usually breezy features. She was particularly freckled, Hermione assumed from the increasing number of excursions in the open air she had been on with the Order. "Let's spend some time together after dinner, yeah? You know, I really haven't properly seen you in almost three months."

Hermione gave her a faint smile. "Yeah. Of course."

Hermione walked briskly down the first floor hall, allowing her Mary Janes to smack loudly upon the tile floor. The urgent sound made her feel almost normal, self-assured; as though she were strolling the halls of Hogwarts after a late night in the library, or setting off on prefect duty. Her black skirt and jumper weren't quite Hogwarts uniform, but she found she preferred choosing from her own selection of clothing, however small. The skirt swished pleasingly beside her tights as she walked. Hermione nodded to Hestia Jones as she passed her, choosing to ignore the pitying look that lingered in Hestia's gaze.

When she reached the large parlor entryway, she halted, shocked to see Lupin standing with two male figures, both quite disheveled. One was tall and dark, the other thin and drawn, but both wholly familiar to her despite their slightly pinched, ill appearances.

It was Dean Thomas and Justin Finch-Fletchley.

"Dean?" Hermione stepped into the parlor in a rush, discomfort in her abdomen quite forgotten. "Justin?"

Their gazes snapped to her in utmost relief. She turned, bewildered, to Lupin, who was leaning up against the far wall with a grim expression on his face.

"Here she is," Lupin said, keeping his gaze on Hermione. "I'll give you a few moments. Hermione, I want you in the kitchen directly afterwards. _Directly_ ," he emphasized again.

"Alright," she said, a little taken aback. Lupin heaved himself off the wall and passed her before pausing in the entryway. He looked back at Dean and Justin, as if wanting to say something. Words seemed to fail him. He walked on, footsteps echoing down the hall slowly.

Hermione turned to face Dean and Justin, feeling confusion spread across her features. "What's going on?"

"We're just here to— to say goodbye," Dean bit out. Hermione now saw what she hadn't been able to place under his slightly sickly, stretched appearance: anger. "Lupin doesn't want us staying long, apparently."

"What?"

"We've just asked the Order for sanctuary," Justin heaved a sigh. Unlike Dean, he seemed apathetic. Flat. Hermione knew the feeling well. "Lupin denied us. Well, the Order denied us. Through Lupin."

" _What?_ "

"Come now, Hermione," Dean smiled at her bitterly. "Brightest witch of her age, and all that?"

"What are you on about?"

"We've been on the run for almost three months. Muggleborn Registration Commission. This was really our last hope— appeal face to face and all that— but the Order has made it clear they can't hide Muggleborns _and_ fight the war."

Hermione felt quite stunned. She shook her head, once again swarmed with the feeling of everything being too much. Her magic, the pain in her abdomen, her swirling emotions—

"Are you seriously out of the loop that much?" Justin was saying. "Even if you didn't get classified intel it's been in the papers—"

"Whatever," Dean cut in. "Look, Hermione, we wanted a word in private— and we hate to ask you this, we really do, but we've been starving on and off. We're traveling with a girl named Niamh, she found this location—" he thrust a piece of paper into her hand. "You're our secret keeper. Bring us food if you can, yeah? And supplies? Information?"

"Take care, Hermione. Please come. As soon as you can, as frequently as you can." Justin turned. Dean had already strode halfway towards the foyer, clearly not as intent on giving a heartfelt goodbye. "Give our... our love to Harry if you see him, alright?"

Hermione's head swam, thoughts whirling by one by one. Some clicked into place while others flew by, unfettered, incomprehensible, illogical. "Wait," she said quickly, taking a step towards the departing figures. "Why— why did you just make me secret keeper? Why are you asking _me_ to get you—"

"Because," Dean cut off gruffly. "You're one of the few of _them_ —" he jerked his thumb angrily in the direction of headquarters. "—who understands."

*

**A/N:**

**This chapter was so fun to write. I feel like I'm finally getting closer to introducing the main plot...**

**A word about Hermione's period. I'm operating under the assumption that magic affect witches' fertilities. Pregnancies have been depicted in a lot of fics I've read as being difficult on witches' bodies, and conception difficult. In this fic, I've interpreted this to mean magical currents interfere with normal reproductive activity in a way that makes periods less frequent and mitigates the associated cramps (and other aspects of menstrual cycles). So Hermione's magic being diverted from its usual state made her have, for the first time in her life, a normal period, which to her is extremely painful and humiliating.**

**The title of this fic, Subaltern, was inspired by a history course I took for one of my majors a couple years ago. The term as it's used in history academia always interested me and is one of those words that's always stuck in my head with no real use for it. I hope this chapter establishes what it's significance could be for Hermione. As the main plot becomes more clear, perhaps my choice of title will, too.**

**If you guys only knew the wild spice I have planned...**

**Thank you again londonscalling98 for helping me brainstorm and giving me feedback!**

**Follow me on TikTok (grovergirl12) and Twitter (FionaGrove1)!**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	6. Hecatomb

_ April 7, 1998. _

“Why did you tell Dean and Justin that they couldn’t stay here? Or at any of our safe locations, for that matter?” Hermione’s hands were trembling slightly. She had stood stunned in the parlor for a few minutes after her former classmates had left, thinking in the same kind of frantic whirl she did on exams when posed with one of the few questions she hadn’t been prepared to answer. Piecing together everything she knew logically; identifying the gaps; figuring how best to conceal them.

Except this time, she  _ would _ be able to get answers to those gaps.

Hermione had been horcrux hunting with Harry for the better part of two months. She had had no information during that time; in the couple weeks she had been home, she hadn’t been reading papers. Only for the past few days had she been attending strategy meetings, always in the background and frequently distracted. 

Dean and Justin’s intimations had reawakened her. The Muggleborn Registration Commission— that blow had come not long after they evacuated the Burrow. But it hadn’t been a major part of their strategy discussions beyond it demonstrating how utterly the Ministry had been captured by the other side. As for the now Ministry-controlled Prophet— she only skimmed it to read between the lines of the information being given, finding that rather than make inferences based on what the Prophet left unsaid, it was easier and often more accurate to gain an idea of the position of the other side through Order spies and intel networks. Like Malfoy, surly though he could be.

She was clearly missing a major part of the picture.

It was almost as though caught up in the search for horcruxes, in helping Lupin retain the minuscule amount of control the Order had in the Ministry, she had overlooked perhaps the most fatal aspect of the war.

Hermione had hurtled to the basement kitchen where Lupin would be waiting for her, she knew, at the long table where large-group strategy meetings were conducted. As expected, he was alone. As though he had been anticipating this reaction from her and wanted to minimize its fallout.

He stared at her for a few moments, as if deciding how best to answer. 

“Hermione,” he said flatly. “Do you know how many active members of the Order there are?”

“300, give or take?”

“Wrong. There are almost quadruple that amount.”

She was floored.

“Hermione— there is a lot you don’t know about this war, believe it or not. I assume the 300 you gave comes from skimming various files we have on our members. Not only are those files non-exhaustive— you don’t have access to all of them. 

“Being Harry’s friend has put you in a position few your age could ever have come into. Your intelligence and magical abilities,” his eyes flicked to her arm, covered in a long sleeve, but the black gauze present nonetheless over the open wound beneath. “Have further made you a valuable asset to us and given you a much higher rank than even some Aurors that came to us with years of experience. But please do not make the mistake that you are aware of all the prerogatives and missions of the Order. In fact, due to your time away with Harry and… your recent troubles, you are… you have not been privy to certain information that may make you more understanding of our need to turn them away.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “They said they’ve been  _ starving _ on and off.”

“Yes,” Lupin said simply. “From what we know, that is generally the condition of the Muggleborns that didn’t have the sense to flee to the continent over the summer.”

“That didn’t have the  _ sense _ ?” Hermione could feel rage burning and bubbling low within her abdomen. 

“Did not have the  _ foresight _ to leave Britain. Their situation is precarious. Almost half of them made the mistake of registering themselves with the Ministry. Dean and Justin did not, which is probably why they’ve been able to keep the Ministry at bay for so long. If you hadn’t been intending to help Harry, we would’ve sent you away over the summer while there was still time, probably not long after you left Hogwarts.”

“Lupin,” she was struggling to keep her voice calm. “Why don’t we ever talk about the Registration Commission?”

“We do. Since it was realized in September. But Hermione— ending the Commission is not going to end the war. The Commission is a symptom, not a cause of the current conflict. Our mission, as always, is twofold— destroying Voldemort and stunting the control he has over the country as much as possible. To protect the thousands of Muggleborns— and entire Muggle population, for that matter— is outside of our scope, no matter how regrettable.”

“A central focus of the other side’s cause,” Hermione fumed, agains struggling to control herself. “Is eradicating and controlling Muggleborns. And protecting them isn’t a central focus of  _ ours _ ?”

She couldn’t believe she had overlooked this crucial aspect of the war for so long: holed up in Grimmauld Place researching and eating up the intel she was allowed to see, which she now realized always focused on the position of Death Eaters, their plans to amalgamate their power. Then, on the move with Harry, looking for ways to destroy their cause. But how could she have not been paying attention to it? Why hadn’t it come up before?

“We will protect them by winning this war, Hermione. If I let Dean and Justin stay here, their friend Niamh would also have to come with them. I’m sure they mentioned her. If Niamh came, she might have friends who she would reach out to in the hopes of saving their lives, as is only natural. Her Muggle parents might need refuge. It’s a slippery slope. Our safe locations are for Order business only— as is Grimmauld Place, no matter how much it pains me. This is what war is like for those who are fighting, Hermione. Sacrifice.”

Hermione took a step back, shaking her head slightly. Her mind was still frenzied but Lupin’s words had rendered her speechless.

Mostly, she was horrified at herself. That she hadn’t known what was happening to other Muggleborns, that she hadn’t cared to know, hadn’t so much as asked, simply assuming they were keeping their heads down and away from the Ministry, and not sparing them a single thought after that.

Enclosed in Grimmauld Place.

“Hermione,” Lupin sounded urgent now. “Trust me, I know. Were it up to me— maybe we would’ve acted sooner to prevent this kind of situation. But at the present there is nothing I can do for Dean and Justin, or Niamh, or anyone else. It wouldn’t be my decision to make—“

“Then whose is it?” Her voice barked out louder than she intended.

Lupin shook his head. “No single individual. Hermione, I know this is horrifying, but—“

“We don’t have  _ anyone _ assigned to keeping an eye on the Muggleborn situation? The Muggle population generally?”

Now Lupin hesitated. “Hestia is.”

“Hestia Jones.” The image of Hestia passing her in the hallway came to Hermione’s mind, unbidden, the witch’s dark, pitying gaze overwhelming the scene.

There was a long silence. 

“She’s not assigned to make decisions about whether or not we protect them.” Lupin was gentle. “She just reports on the present situation— she’s our communique to the Muggle Prime Minister, as well. You know this is the only choice we have, Hermione. You’re too smart not to see it.”

Hermione felt sick. Of  _ course _ he was right—

But something about this also felt so very, very wrong.

“I’d like to see the files on this,” her voice was an octave higher and she tried to sound bossy rather than like she was on the verge of collapse, which is how she felt. The feeling she had in the parlor with Dean and Justin, that it was all  _ too much _ , was rushing back through her. “I want them now. Right this second.”

Lupin stared at her. She glared at him, tipping her chin up. 

“Very well,” he said finally. “I’ll get them for—“

“I’ll come with you to get them.”

“Alright.” They stared at each other a moment longer. “Hermione,” Lupin said softly. “For what it’s worth, I— I know very well the way it feels to be… Well, I know how this feels.”

“And how  _ exactly _ does it feel?” The twisting, wrenching pain of her abdomen egged on her temper at Lupin’s attempt to claim he could sympathize with her. 

“Like they don’t care if you live or die,” he said simply. And he strode towards the door, making her turn and clomp swiftly after him in her Mary Janes to keep up.

*

Hermione stalked the halls of Grimmauld Place after tucking the file neatly underneath her mattress. She wasn’t trying to hide it, but it didn’t feel like the sort of thing that should be left laying visible on the dresser or table in her room, especially as the bedrooms of Grimmauld were reallocated so frequently. The room wasn’t hers any more than the empty dresser or table, completely void of any personal effects. She also didn’t want it to be kept in the Magicked pouch that held her clothes and books, where its precious pages risked falling out or getting bent.

It was quiet; unusually quiet even for night, when the usual hum of Order members dropping by with news and updates dissipated into only being the people who lived at Grimmauld like Hermione. Still, when Hermione had been here months ago it was unusual to not even be able to hear Ginny or Molly.

The portraits murmured as Hermione paced up and down the hall of the second floor landing. It wasn’t unusual for them to react this way towards her; they had since she was only fifteen, staying at Grimmauld for the first time. But tonight, their disdainful rumblings itched and stung, irritating the ever-bubbling ball of rage in her stomach.

It didn’t help that standing made the pain in her back and abdomen positively throb. She grit her teeth, thinking furiously about what she had just read. Part of her was hoping Hestia might still be here: that she would pass her as she did earlier today, watch surprise replace the  _ pity _ in her eyes as she confronted the older witch. Screamed at her. Accused her of being partly guilty for every death.

In a way, she was. Complicit.

After several revolutions around the landing, Hermione descended the stairs. The lack of Order members was disconcerting.

She walked briskly by the parlor, down the hall, past the library, the old office, the meeting room, enjoying the rhythmic  _ tap _ of her shoes, the swish of her skirt, the feeling of her arms swaying purposefully with her steps.  _ Come on, Hestia… _

Hermione would have missed it entirely had she not seen the shadow of a footstep beneath the second library’s door just as she passed it: the light underneath flickering as the foot passed.

She paused, staring at the door. There was faint light underneath, but she could hear no sounds.

Well, obviously.

She placed her hand to the brass handle. The moment it began to turn, she could hear Lupin’s voice: enunciated, stern, just as he had been as a professor and just as he was now in Order meetings.

Hermione opened the door very quickly, tentativeness foregone as it hit her:  _ they were meeting without her _ .

There was a flurry of movement and murmured conversations in the room. Lupin had clearly been closing the meeting— people were now standing, some rustling papers into files, some Magicking empty cups to the tray resting just beside Hermione. She stood in the doorway, eyes flaming and likely revealing the uncertain feeling of betrayal rising within her, augmenting the ball of anger in her stomach.

Lupin caught her eye from where he was standing with a man Hermione didn’t recognize at the head of a long table that had clearly been conjured for the meeting. Bookshelves and chairs had been Magicked to press against the opposite wall. The rearranged room looked quite foreign to Hermione— when had they ever held meetings there?

“Later,” mouthed Lupin at her. A man in a midnight blue traveling cloak brushed by Hermione in the doorway to get out, bumping her injured arm. She pulled it close to her body with a pained hiss, causing the man to mumble an apology before continuing swiftly down the hall. Hermione turned out of the doorway and stood flat against the hallway’s opposite wall as the meeting filed out in quick procession.

Hermione knew she wasn’t privy to certain meetings. But a large one like this—  _ at Grimmauld _ — usually she would be there shadowing Lupin, taking notes furiously.

She watched the members walking quickly down the hallway, some chatting quietly with each other as they made their way to the front door. She was fuming—

—and then she caught sight of a blond head, quite alone, thumbing through a small black notebook absently as he strode out of the room with the few stragglers who hadn’t left with the main deluge of Order members.

Hermione pushed herself away from the wall opposite the doorway and took a step forward. The motion made him look up, surprised, before his eyes went blank. He gave her a small nod, quickly averting his eyes as he turned away from her and started walking in the direction of the front door.

Hermione sped towards him, shooting out a hand to place it on his arm. “Malfoy. Wait.”

Malfoy stopped dead, staring at her hand on his arm and then at her face with an expression that would have been more appropriate if she had spontaneously sprouted a second head.

She removed her hand immediately.

“What, Granger?” he snapped. His gaze was fixed just below her chin, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Do you— do you have a moment?”

Now he looked at her. Incredulity was etched across his features. “Do I ‘have a moment?’”

She stared back, undeterred. His face really was quite angular. Much more so than it had been at Hogwarts. He looked distinctly older, and she wondered if she did too, or if he was looking down at her seeing the same old swot, merely in a set of Muggle clothes.

“Yes. Or are you in a hurry?”

He paused, sending a long glance towards the second library before looking back at her face. “Not in a greater hurry than usual.” He said in a churlish tone.

“I was just wondering,” she lowered her tone despite the empty hallway. “Exactly what You-Know-Who’s current and future plans are for Muggleborns and Muggles.”

Malfoy gaped at her. “Granger. Surely you’re not this daft.”

“I’m not being  _ daft _ ,” she snapped. “I don’t need you to tell me he hates them and thinks they’re inherently inferior. I want you to tell me what he plans to do about it.”

Malfoy was examining her face in a calculated stare as she spoke, like he was attempting to catalogue it. Or pick it apart. She wasn't sure. Hermione forced herself not to feel uncomfortable.

“Well,” he said slowly, still assessing her face carefully. “Assuming he wins the war, Granger, he’ll expand the Registration Commission. Penalty of death for not registering. Strip them of their wands, which is already happening. Possibly relocate or incarcerate— if he had it his way I’d say he would outright slaughter them, which maybe at some point he would, but not before certain… international movements could be made.”

She glared up at him. “And Muggles?” She couldn’t help but feel Malfoy hadn’t cared enough to consider the second part of her question. It had been a long day of her increasingly feeling like no wizards cared other than her.

“Again, he wouldn’t break the Statute of Secrecy right away if he won, the UWN wouldn’t stand for that. It would throw wizarding society into jeopardy internationally, there would be some kind of intervention. But he would obviously exert a high level of control over the Muggle government. I— it would be a very different Britain, Granger.” He considered for a moment, as if unsure he should tell her. She was just about to open her mouth to press him when he continued. “Pockets of Muggle society would know. And would wish they didn’t.”

“Well,” she said rather nastily. “Thank you for being so  _ specific _ .”

He gave her a cold smile. “You know, Granger, as far as  _ spies _ go I’m a pretty fucking bad choice. A seventeen year old who fucked up killing Dumbledore doesn’t exactly get privileged with the Dark Lord’s most important  _ plans _ . Which change every fucking day, by the way, because he’s an unstable lunatic. He might be waiting to kill me in my parlor the minute I get back.” The smile twisted cruelly.

Hermione, whose face had contorted with shock turned disgusted anger at his mentioning Dumbledore, was about to take out an entire day of menstrual pains and simmering fury by wiping the cold little sneer off his face— physically— when he abruptly looked up and away from her. Face perfectly blank.

She spun around to see Lupin staring at them from the entrance to the second library, his expression of surprise quickly becoming impassive. He folded his arms and leaned casually on the doorframe, staring at Malfoy.

Hermione turned back to Malfoy. He had taken a slight step back from her, face perfectly emotionless, still looking at Lupin.

“I’ll walk you out,” Hermione said coldly. 

His blank face morphed into a smirk, the kind she had come to associate with him masking his unease. “Why thank you, Granger.”

They walked in silence for a moment, her shoes clicking much more loudly than the muted step of his dragon hide boots. She rolled her unicorn hair wand between her fingers, deep in thought. These general plans were more or less in Hestia’s file. It frustrated her that neither Hestia nor apparently Malfoy had any information more— but then, she realized, Hestia’s intel very likely came from the blond boy walking beside her…

“New wand?”

He caught her off guard and she blinked up at him. 

“How are you liking it?”

So he didn’t know. 

“It’s not the same as my old one,” she said, nose upturned slightly. Hermione certainly had no intention of telling him the truth.

He didn’t answer.

They reached the foyer. Malfoy turned and glanced over his shoulder, flicking his wand once in the direction of the hallway they’d just turned out of.

“You obviously didn’t tell Lupin we spoke the other night.” His voice was flat and he was staring down at her, once again avoiding her face by looking just below her chin. “Because he hasn’t tried to cause me bodily harm, as he promised to do if I, ah,  _ traumatized you  _ with my presence.”

He smiled ruefully.

Hermione still felt, inexplicably, that he owed her some sort of apology. She still couldn’t tell why he had visited her that night if not to apologize, which he hadn’t. He was harder to read every time she saw him. Silence seemed like a better strategy than interjecting at the present.

“It wasn’t my intention to scare you, if I did.” He was clearly uncomfortable, gaze flicking between her chin and her eyes, like he couldn’t hold them. “I just wanted you to— you needed to know that I wasn’t just— standing there watching it happen. I thought the Order would come when I told them. Immediately.”

“I know.” Her voice was quiet. Did he want her to exonerate him from blame? Or was this his way of apologizing? Is that what she felt when she thought about his being there— that he was partially to blame?

She didn’t know, and didn’t have room inside her to know. She pushed the thought away.

A pregnant pause weighed heavily between them for a moment, his eyes coming to rest on her nose. Finally when it was clear he had no intention of saying anything more, Hermione broke the silence.

“You’ll owe me a favor, Malfoy.”

He nodded curtly— perhaps owing someone was something he could understand better than outright apology— and stepped back from her, leaning heavily on one foot as he fastened the center buttons of his fitted black traveling cloak. Malfoy flicked his wand at the hallway again.

“Bye, Granger.” He seemed to find the words unnatural coming out of his mouth, turning quickly and sweeping towards the door.

*

Since the Ministry had fallen in August, 4,196 Muggles had been killed. 400 Muggleborns registered; 126 incarcerated for evading the Registration Commission; 32 killed in their effort to get away from Snatchers.

Hermione perused these figures, sitting on her freshly laundered sheets, running her hand through the pages of the file slowly. Earlier she had been frantic, devouring; now, she wanted to digest each number properly, memorize it, move beyond the most shocking and come to properly recognize the small.

Every single one of these was a human life. She reminded herself, tried to convince herself of the reality of the death on these pages— but it felt as abstract as a history text.

What could the Muggles be thinking? Did they understand there was a war afoot? Hermione caught herself, the irksome words of her former professor floating across her mind suddenly:  _ shade of reality _ .

Her anger simmered sharply within her again. That phrase had never left her mind, popping up inexplicably, riling her up over the old memory all over again. That people had thought her life was a  _ shade of reality _ until she got her Hogwarts letter…

_ Fucking stupid. _ It was wizards’ notion that Muggles were a part of reality rather than reality itself, in her opinion, that were making them so complacent with the slaughter, so  _ content _ with doing the bare minimum.  _ Fucking Hestia _ …

How could Hestia compile this file and be content to do no more than protect the Prime Minister?

There was a knock on her door. Hermione jumped, sliding the file quickly under her pillow beside the unicorn hair wand before calling a hasty “Come in!”

It was Lupin. He stepped cautiously inside, holding a dark, black case in one hand. It looked like her old clarinet case. Hermione almost asked if it was one, then caught herself, realizing how childish the query might sound.

“Hermione,” he greeted. He shut the door softly behind him, meeting her hard stare with an understanding one. “It’s late. We can talk more tomorrow about the… well, about whatever you want. Including tonight’s meeting, which I regret you weren’t told about.”

There was a pause. She said nothing, refusing to let her stare melt under his fatherly expression.  _ Remember how angry you are, remember the 400 registered Muggleborns, the 126 _

“I want you to have this now, before you leave in the morning.” He knelt on the floor, opening the case. He paused, looking up at her. “I’m not a fool, Hermione. I know what Dean and Justin asked you to do when I left the room. I won’t try to dissuade you of it—“ he held up a hand as she opened her mouth. “I admire, as always, your bravery and desire to do what you believe is right. But I will not allow you to venture off to an unknown, unsecured location without the ability to perform magic.”

Hermione seared with a motley of emotions— anger at Lupin, guilt for being angry with him, embarrassment, helplessness,  _ hatred _ at herself for being so helpless—

—then her eyes came to understand what Lupin had pulled out of the case.

“I’m sure you don’t have experience handling Muggle arms. But I’ve been shown that it’s relatively easy: you just aim and pull the trigger.”

*

**A/N:**

**Thank you for reading (if you are reading this fic when it still only has a few chapters, RIP).**

**Thank you to londonscalling98 for always helping me brainstorm and giving me feedback!**

**Follow me on tiktok and twitter-- grovergirl12 and FionaGrove1. I also hope at this point we all know that #obamashipsdramione. I can only hope someday he reads my fic.**

**Love,**

**Fiona**

  
  



	7. Exhortations

_May 14, 1998._

Hermione still hadn’t used it. It. The gun.

She pulled it out often when she was alone in her room at Grimmauld, removing it from where it was clipped tightly in a holster on her person, placing it gently before her on the bed. She would run her fingers over the cool, dark metal. It was small, but deceptively heavy. There was something strikingly beautiful about the sharpness of its design.

Many times Hermione imagined herself flicking the safety up, putting her forefinger on the trigger.

She took practice aiming at nothing, standing in the center of her room. 

Hermione wondered if she would be good at it. Her spell work was— _still_ was, she reminded herself— exceptional, graceful, only having gotten better in the months she had spent at Grimmauld. But it was instinctive, reflexive, a part of her in a way the cold little object was not.

Still it enthralled her. A desire to _make_ it part of herself.

Nonetheless, there was nowhere she could reasonably practice. It was not common knowledge in Grimmauld that she had been given a Muggle weapon; wizards were notoriously distrustful of them, as at a short range, guns sometimes had minute advantage over wands. Since their invention, there were numerous instances of Muggles, equally distrustful of wizards, using them against surprised magical adversaries. She had refused to part with the weapon once Lupin gave it to her, feeling it alleviated some of the crippled feeling that had overcome her after the incident at the Manor; to keep it hidden, she had taken to wearing a large black jacket, the gun clipped into the holster on the back of her waist. Still she dared not remove it at headquarters, save for in the relative privacy of her bedroom.

Nor could she practice at Dean and Justin’s hideout, which was not closeted in some rural hillside as she had envisioned, but was a dilapidated semi-detached in west Bristol. She had debated practicing in their tiny garden; but then, she wasn’t sure if Muggle bullets would pierce through wards, or might instead deflect back at her.

Her first trip to their hideout had come at a steep price: she had been forced to disclose the location to Lupin.

“You cannot go there by Muggle transport, Hermione. It would take hours, and you wouldn’t be able to bring the firearm, they’re quite particular about where you can take weapons. You need to show me.”

Hermione had bitten her lip, deliberating. She was holding the gun gently in both hands, still sitting in bed.

“Hermione,” Lupin was now clearly getting frustrated. “You are being obstinate. I am trying to help you. And I refuse to allow you to be killed on my watch, either because you splinch yourself _foolishly_ attempting to Apparate or because Death Eaters see you traipsing through Muggle London when you have a rather rudimentary means of protecting yourself, and no quick way to escape.”

She had grudgingly consented, showing Lupin the paper. She could not help but feel she had just committed some slight betrayal as secret keeper.

But undoubtedly, Dean and Justin could not begrudge her finding a way to get them food and supplies.

They had been shocked when she revealed the reason behind her surprising means of arrival.

“You’re not… you can't be serious,” Dean had said angrily when she pulled down her jacket and jumper sleeves to reveal the black gauze. 

“I can still do magic,” she snapped, pulling her sleeve back down abruptly. “It’s just difficult. It’s like… I have to force it out, and it gets caught, or— slowed—“

Justin and Dean were gaping at her in horror, but she felt strangely relieved to find no pity in their gaze. The shock and fear she found on their faces was akin to what she felt herself when she confronted the loss of her magic too much.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Dean finally let out a huff, head falling into his hands. “Hermione, I— you need to be really fucking careful. The Muggleborns who registered had their wands taken, and that— you being in exactly the same position as them… We were hoping—“

“Hoping you’d be _safe_ ,” Justin interrupted, shooting Dean a look. Hermione felt the blooming affinity she had felt for the two men rapidly evaporating at sense she got that they were disappointed in her sudden lack of abilities, at Dean’s equating her with the other Muggleborns who were powerless, wandless, hunted, weak, _less than_.

Dean said nothing.

Justin sighed. “Hermione, I… I’m so sorry. You’ll get better, I know you will. Brightest witch of her age, eh? An injury like that can’t be permanent, you’re still healing.” He gave her a small smile, which Hermione returned.

They told her little about the past seven months, wolfing down the bread, apples, and canned Muggle goods she had brought vociferously. She furiously asked questions at first, but then decided to wait, feeling suddenly guilty for the protection she had at Grimmauld despite her role in the war.

Niamh had surfaced shortly after Hermione ceased her questions, and instead had begun informing Dean and Justin of the last she had seen Harry. She was tall, with fair skin and dark hair, a smattering of freckles across her heart-shaped face.

“Hermione Granger?” Niamh had clearly been sleeping, hair slightly wild and the red imprint of some rough cloth across her cheek. She stuck out a hand. “Niamh Moran. I remember you from Hogwarts, I was so jealous of you— oh, I’m two years above you,” Niamh added quickly, seeing Hermione’s confusion and guilt at not knowing the girl. “But you had such a reputation— brightest witch of her age, the _decade_ , and all that.”

She smiled shyly, retracting her hand, sitting on the ground, and eating with gusto beside the boys.

Hermione went to the hideout nearly every day, bringing food and supplies in her Magicked pouch. She had removed her clothes and books and arranged them neatly in the dresser of her room at Grimmauld, deciding it was unlikely they were going to ask her to move locations, and recognizing now with a twinge that whenever Harry returned next, she would not be able to resume the hunt with him.

Her fifth visit to the hideout, she was surprised to find three additional Muggleborns there. 

One had brought a wizarding radio. 

“Potterwatch?” Hermione asked, having become acquainted with the program at Grimmauld. She suspected it was run by an Order member and the Order tended to be quite split about whether the program was necessary for the morale of wizarding Britain, or was a dangerous information leak aiding the other side.

The girl shook her head. “Better than that. There’s a frequency that we’ve been picking up on from France, it’s run by an organization of Muggleborn journalists reporting on the situation in Britain. It’s hard to understand a lot of the time though— only Carla speaks French.” She nodded her head towards a rather dirty looking girl with blond hair.

“And poorly,” the girl muttered. She looked up at Hermione then quickly averted her eyes, looking shy.

“I speak French,” Hermione said. Her breath caught in her chest— the outside world was paying attention to Britain. This was news to the Order, who had been completely cut off from international communication following the fall of the Ministry. All forms of communication were being watched, impervious wards preventing Apparition and portkeys. 

She returned to Grimmauld Place that day with excitement burning hot within her chest. Swiping a usually unused radio from the parlor, Hermione dashed back up to her room like a child on Christmas, eager to listen to the WWN for the first time in months.

And so April and early May passed faster than any other days of the war, Hermione departing Grimmauld in the early hours of the morning; returned before evening, sometimes slipping into meetings uninvited; and falling asleep always listening to the staticky French station of the WWN.

Almost every time she went to the hideout, there were new Muggleborns, some adults older than Lupin. They all seemed to know her, inexplicably excited by her presence there, all repeating the same thing: “brightest witch of her age.”

It made her glow inside in a way she had not in almost a year. She stopped removing her big black jacket, keeping the gun well out of sight. Hermione suspected Dean and Justin were not informing the newcomers of her injury. She wanted to keep it that way.

But still she pulled it out in her room every night, caressing it curiously at first, then knowingly, excitedly. She had not used it. But she wanted to. Very, very badly.

*

It was on one of the nights Hermione returned late, having been at the hideout for hours, that she noticed it beneath the second library door again: almost imperceptible, a shadow moving beneath the light of the door. Hermione paused immediately. It was a drizzly May day, and the night had grown quite cool. Her large black jacket was pulled tight around her frame, the gun a subtle bump just above her hips, square in the center of her lower back.

She stood, jacket drawn tight around her, considering. Then she placed her hand on the copper handle of the library’s door, turning it slightly, motionless before the small crack of light spilling out from the room.

“—not done any research in weeks,” a woman’s voice was saying. “Harry is Merlin knows where, she’s not with him, we are no closer to winning this war than we were _months_ ago and there is no place for—“

“Hestia.” Hermione recognized Lupin’s voice clearly. “I will not entertain this any longer.”

There was a pause. In a snap decision, Hermione wrenched the door open.

Both Lupin and Hestia looked at her as if they had been caught red-handed in some sordid act. They were sitting in two large wing-backed arm chairs— the long table at the meeting Hermione had discovered weeks ago was clearly not a normal fixture of the library— with Lupin leaning his elbows on his knees and wearing an expression of utmost regret. Hestia merely looked surprised.

“You’re talking about Harry?” Hermione had never seen any sense in beating around the bush when she had no reason to lie.

“We’re talking about you,” Hestia said baldly. Her expression of surprise was replaced with a hard, rather blank one, not unlike Malfoy’s. Hermione pushed the mental image away from her mind, annoyed that he had appeared unbidden, as he occasionally did.

“Well, that’s perfect.” Hermione was bold. “I was hoping to talk about you, Hestia.”

Lupin looked distinctly uncomfortable. Hestia appeared taken aback.

“The Muggleborn situation.” Hermione stepped forward, pulling the door shut behind her. The silencing charm resumed, humming slightly under her fingers. She was tempted to keep them on the door handle, just to feel the little zip that she missed so much. “It’s receiving international attention. Lupin gave me your file; I know that nothing is currently being done to protect the Muggleborns still in Britain.”

“I wouldn’t say _nothing_ —“

“It’s not an accusation,” Hermione cut in cleanly. Her voice was steady and she took a step towards their seated forms, feeling not unlike she had when she had finally trapped Rita Skeeter in a jar. “I’m merely saying. There are well over a thousand unprotected Muggleborns in Britain right this moment. Not even to consider the Muggle population. And the wizarding world is aware. I think we should use that to our advantage.”

Hermione had no intention of informing Hestia about the hideout, feeling a distinct dislike for the woman. Still she stepped forward confidently. She had been hoping for this moment, and had not anticipated it to come so soon: a private audience with both Lupin and Hestia.

“The Muggleborns of France are becoming increasingly concerned about the safety of the Muggleborn population in Britain. Additionally, I’ve done some research—“ Hestia raised her eyebrows incredulously towards Lupin at this. “—and the actions of You-Know-Who are in clear violation of the Vienna Conventions following the Second Wizarding World War. Which _means_ ,” she stepped forward excitedly. “There’s a possibility of magical intervention. International intervention, if we ask the UWN. Britain’s review in the wizarding rights council is upcoming. Wizarding states might come to Britain’s aid, but even if that’s politically unfeasible, it may present us with a chance to evacuate the remaining Muggleborns to the continent to seek refuge, or put enough international attention and pressure on the Ministry to stall the Registration Commission.”

Hestia was quiet for a moment, regarding Hermione with an expression she couldn’t quite read. Finally her face went blank. “Ms. Granger,” she said. “I understand that this may appear an exciting prospect for you. But we haven’t had contact with the continent in months—“

“I know this from a radio network.”

“—and you are overlooking the fact that reorienting the war by formally soliciting aid from foreign powers is not only unlikely to receive much response, but could turn Britain into even more of a war zone, hurting other Muggles.”

“I disagree that it’s unlikely to receive a response.”

“It is. It’s politically unwise to go up against You-Know-Who. If it were an option, Ms. Granger, I would have contacted the UWN months ago.”

Hermione stared at her. Hestia stared right back, looking to Lupin as if for support. It made Hermione’s rage bubble within her, lifting up into her chest more rapidly than it ever had before.

“You don’t even want to fucking _try_.”

“And you don’t have enough knowledge of the Order given the past few months to neither make recommendations nor criticize.” Hestia’s voice was a challenge; her face remained perfectly blank. 

It hit Hermione suddenly; Hestia was an Occlumens and was employing it against her at this very moment. To hide some deeper emotion, keep herself controlled, as if she were just as angry with Hermione as Hermione was with her.

She had no fucking clue. Not a clue what these past months had been like, were like _now_ seeing the other Muggleborns starving and dirty in some godforsaken hideout reliant upon her, what _life_ had been like feeling like others saw her as _inferior_ even when she was worth ten of fucking Hestia Jones—

“You _will_ contact the UWN.” She practically shouted the words.

“I will not.”

“Then you are declaring here and now,” Hermione’s voice rose with every word. “That you don’t _give a fuck_. Not about Muggleborns, not about Muggles, not about me—“

“Hermione.” Lupin cut in sharply, standing. Hestia was gripping the armrests of her chair tightly, her knuckles positively white. Hermione could feel her magic crackling within her, especially in her left arm, and found she was enjoying the feeling. Relishing in it. Her magic, flowing through her strongly in her temper after weeks of being slow, weak, unreachable. “That is more than enough.”

Hermione turned her glare to him. She was so furious she wanted to—

“You’re dismissed.” His tone was quiet.

She stared at him for a moment, refusing to back down. The silence in the room was positively electric, crackling between them.

Finally it was insupportable. 

Hermione tuned into the WWN that night, shaking with rage, incapable of paying close enough attention to translate. She tore several pages from an old school notebook she kept with her, and began to write.

*

“You’re sure about this?”

“Absolutely certain.”

She had portkeyed the hideout before dawn that day, rousing Dean and Justin from the downstairs couch. There were so many Muggleborns sleeping in small heaps around them that she had tiptoe around them when she entered the house.

Dean was scanning the letter up and down. “Who the fuck is Hestia Jones? And you’ve got the old Minister on here- his Minister of the Interior— head of the Auror Department— Head of the Department on Muggle Relations—“

“They _let_ this happen,” Hermione hissed quietly. “Don’t you see, Dean? This isn’t You-Know-Who’s doing. It’s wizarding society that has been laying the groundwork for this for decades. Using centuries of strain on their relationship with Muggles as justification for all sorts of shit. Convincing themselves that Muggles aren’t _real_ in the way they are, are _less than_ — Dean, do you understand?”

She looked at him desperately. He looked back, the anger that so frequently colored his features flaring up.

“Yeah.”

It was all he needed to say.

“I want everyone here to sign the letter,” she said urgently, rummaging in her pouch for a Muggle pen. “If we want the UWN to act, we need emotive appeal. And for this letter—“ she removed the second, shorter letter to the French network from the file she had clasped under her arm. “—we should sign in order to establish a rapport, but it doesn’t need to be all of us. Just me, you, and Justin, I think.”

“And Niamh.”

“Sure, and Niamh.” Hermione was a little irritated, feeling three was a more appropriate number than four, but recognizing it would be insensitive to say so.

As the Muggleborns awoke around her, Hermione passed the letters to each, explaining briefly. “I want you out of Britain,” she said quickly to each. “Or I want you _protected_ in Britain. This is an option I didn’t think might be possible before I realized how much the international community knows about what’s happening here. They need an appeal from us— your name just at the bottom there, Carla, we can turn it over if there isn’t enough room.”

When she departed that day, Hermione felt lighter than air; in control for the first time in months. But more importantly, the awed expressions of the wizards and witches around her as they signed— their exclamations at how glad they were that the brightest witch in Britain was finally helping them— made her feel normal in a way she hadn't since Dumbledore died.

*

A problem remained, and that was mailing the letters.

Hermione, of course, had thought this major issue through.

For the next two weeks she sat quietly beside her door in the hallway of Grimmauld Place, listening for late night visitors. During the day, she took to working in the library instead of visiting Dean and Justin’s hideout, dropping off food in the morning before quickly returning. She was lying in wait: his appearance at headquarters was unpredictable, but sooner or later he was certain to come.

On the last day of May, it finally happened.

She was working in the library when Lupin stuck his head in, silencing the room and locking the door.

“I’m glad to see you’re working in here,” he said quietly to her, as though he still ought speak in a whisper despite it being only them in the library. “And I apologize for my— failure to approach you sooner about this.”

Hermione shut her book on international wizarding law, covering the title with her elbow and looking at him expectantly.

“Listen, Hermione. Tonks, Ginny, and Molly are all worried. They’ve barely seen you since the… incident at the Manor, and none of them know where you’ve been going as I do. Other Order members have voiced different concerns. Your flitting in and out of meetings without offering any assistance and the fact that you are no longer producing the kind of research you were before leaving with Harry is, well, understandable to me given the circumstances, but unacceptable to others.”

He saw the look on her face and made a quick amendment. “Not just Hestia, Hermione. In fact, she’s been the most gentle about it—“

“What’s your point?” Her own voice shocked her. The coldness of it.

Lupin sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “My point, Hermione, is that I love you very much. Like I expected I would have loved Tonks and I’s child.” She blinked in surprise at this, Lupin rarely speaking about her miscarriage. “But I cannot act as a buffer between you and senior Order members who are frustrated at housing and providing sensitive information to someone who seems disengaged from our cause.”

“You’ve had _meetings_ without me.”

“We have always had meetings without you,” Lupin seemed frustrated now. “And the number has increased because, Hermione, your injury and now your apparent _apathy_ for our cause has kept you from being fully engaged in the new challenges presenting themselves.” He huffed a breath, calming himself. “I would have thought you’d be spending every waking hour in this library researching how you might heal your arm. Your magic. But you haven’t even been doing that.”

She turned away bitterly. She had been wondering if her lack of magical ability was part of the reason certain Order members were apparently so ready to criticize her, dispense of her, as if she hadn’t given them—

“I know you like to throw your entire being into a single cause. And if that cause is however many Muggleborns you are feeding, then I commend you. But it will not come at the expense of your work here, Hermione. Otherwise you put me in a difficult position.” Lupin looked up at the ceiling again, thinking, then reached a careful arm out to place on her shoulder. “You can start re-engaging right now. We’re having a meeting in the second library. You’re taking notes for me.”

Hermione stood, tucking the book under her arm. It squeaked against the shiny leather exterior of her large jacket. She followed Lupin out of the room, and could swear he eyed the place under her jacket where the gun rested in its holster as he held the door for her.

She brushed it off. Part of her enjoyed holding a weapon that she knew would shock the wizards around her so much.

They walked silently towards the second library. When they entered its dark wooden door, Hermione was surprised to see someone else already inside, hands pressed behind his black traveling cloak, staring at one of the bookshelves as though intending to memorize the titles of its contents. White blonde hair practically silver under the muted light of the chandelier above. 

“Malfoy,” greeted Lupin, barely sparing him a glance. Hermione, on the other hand, struggled to contort her features into not looking too pleased. _Finally_.

He turned, nodding at Lupin, eyes skimming over her without pausing.

The meeting was small— with Malfoy, they tended to be, as the circle of those who knew about his status was highly controlled. Hermione took notes furiously, almost verbatim, if only to distract herself from thinking about the surly blonde figure sitting with his arms crossed in the far corner, as far away from the cluster of Order members as possible.

He looked distinctly… pale. Hermione couldn’t stop sneaking glances at him. His eyes were rimmed with red and swollen, and his face was so pallid it looked almost grey. She tried to keep her gaze down, but the anticipation of waiting for him to appear the past couple weeks and imagining him walking around the corner of a landing or quietly exiting Lupin’s office had made him a veritable phantom in her mind: to see him suddenly in the flesh was surreal.

She felt a little embarrassed by it.

Not once did Malfoy so much as look her way.

When the meeting concluded, she rushed out the door first, speed walking to the foyer, jacket billowing slightly in her wake. She twisted it tightly around herself to keep the holster from showing. Hermione waited in the foyer, shifting from one foot to the other, nodding politely at the Order members as they departed. 

_Let him be last. Let him be last. Let him come last_ …

Hermione knew he would, the perpetual lone straggler. And he did.

Malfoy did a slight double take when he saw her in the foyer, staring expectantly at the hallway he had just turned out of. His face flickered briefly with surprise before sliding into its perfect mask, gaze settling just above her hairline.

He nodded at her in greeting as he always did, and started walking briskly towards the front door.

“My favor, Malfoy.”

It was as though he had known the words were coming, and was wholly unsurprised by them. He didn’t so much as turn around when he stopped, but stood stock-still, shoulders tensed.

Hermione took several deliberate steps towards him, letting her crossed arms fall to her sides as she stopped just behind him. She stared up at his shock of blond hair, longer than usual curled slightly towards the high collar of his black traveling cloak.

“I need to send two letters. Internationally.”

He turned his head to look at her slowly, mask slipping away. His eyes really were red, she could see it clearly— blood vessels burst in their whites. She forced herself not to focus on it.

“Fine.” He glanced forwards towards the front door impatiently. “I should have the chance in a week. Get me the letters via Lupin—“

“And I’ll need to come with you to send them off.” Hermione interrupted as though he hadn’t spoken. “It’s Order business. Classified project. It can’t be intercepted, nor its contents read by you or anyone.”

Now his eyes narrowed slightly, and he turned his full frame to face her. Even when sick, the way he held himself before her made her feel small.

“Not an option, Granger,” he said slowly, eyes curious upon her visage. She could practically feel his eyes flickering across her features. How did he do that? It made her feel like she had to demonstrate her strength to him, like there was some… _spar_ between them she hadn’t realized was starting. A battle she desperately needed to gain the upper hand in. “International post is sent via a monitored checkpoint. It’s easy for me to get in. It’s dangerous for you to.”

“I have to come.” She didn’t trust him not to look at the letters. Not that she thought he would tell Voldemort— but Draco Malfoy knowing more about her intentions than Lupin made her highly uneasy.

“Curse the envelopes,” he said simply. “Make _SNEAK_ spell across my face in warts. I don’t care. I won’t open them.”

Hermione cursed herself. She was hoping he wouldn’t proffer the most obvious solution if she wanted to trust he wouldn’t know the contents of the letter: magic.

“No,” she said simply. “I’m coming. And you’ll make it happen.”

He stared at her a moment longer with that same, uncomfortable gaze. Hermione couldn’t help but feel he were looking at her like a poker hand: emotionless, yet calculating behind his closed expression.

She stared back, unphased. Unwilling to cede any ground to him. After all, did she not hold the winning hand? The cut on her arm, present under the black jacket, both of them painfully aware of its origin?

“Fine,” Malfoy said coldly. “I’ll do you the _favor_.”

He turned, taking a few swift strides towards the door before he turned suddenly.

“Oh, and Granger.” He turned his head slightly. She could just see the profile of his face, an unexpected smirk beginning to prick the corners of his mouth upwards. “I’ll be careful not to mention this _Order business_ to Lupin.”

He gave the breath of what sounded like a chuckle as he swept out the door, leaving her standing in the foyer with the distinct feeling that she owed Malfoy more for his silence than he owed her for his pseudo-penance.

*

**A/N:**

**I know these updates are coming with some ~real speed~ but it’s because I’m procrastinating schoolwork in order to get them done, and also because I’m so excited to get to the real plot— and more Hermione/Draco action— that I just want to publish these first few chapters as soon as possible.**

**Next chapter is going to be a lot of fun.**

**Thank you londonscalling98 for all her help, AS ALWAYS!**

**And thank you for reading. I know you’re here too, Obama.**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	8. Repercussions

  
  
  
_June 2, 1998._

The sudden conspiratorial nature of her relationship with Malfoy was not something Hermione was prepared for.

After not appearing at Grimmauld for a full two weeks, he was suddenly everywhere. The following morning she was so surprised to see him descending the stairs of the second landing that she nearly did a double take and had to recover herself quickly before he gave her and Tonks his usual nod, gaze slipping somewhere over their heads. The next afternoon she was taking tea with Ginny, the two sitting in a rather awkward silence, when his blond form slipped by the parlor door on his way out.

Hermione had choked on her tea in surprise, Ginny thumping her heartily on the back.

Later that evening he had been waiting quietly in the second library when she entered with Lupin. If anything had changed about their relationship, he didn't show it, not so much as allowing his eyes to rest upon her. Yet Hermione couldn't help but feel as though there had been a shift— since when had she been so brutally aware of his presence?

Malfoy was everywhere and yet nowhere at all, as she had so often frustratingly observed. Oppressive and overwhelming to be near; never there when she needed him to be.

It irked her that since the start of the war, there had been several occasions of her _needing_ him.

On the second morning of June, however, it became clear that he had been seeking her out just as much as she had him.

"I thought you'd be in here." She jumped, looking up from the stack of books she had been cataloging to find him striding across the main library to her. Malfoy flicked his wand lazily behind him, silencing the room. "Merlin, I didn't realize how hard it would be to get you alone."

He pulled the chair out opposite her, picking up one of the books from the pile on the table between them in vague interest. _The Vienna Conventions: Volume I._

"You could have asked," she snapped, snatching the book back from him. He kept his gaze trained on the cover for a moment before snapping them up to her face.

"Yeah, that would've gone over well in front of Lupin. Or my cousin. Or Weasley."

Hermione started at his mention of Tonks. She had rarely even seen them in the same room together.

"Not important," he waved his hand dismissively. Hermione leaned forward, elbows on the table, at the same time that he leaned back, folding his arms. "We can go Thursday night."

"Right," she tried not to sound too eager. She hadn't been certain how long it would take to plan— Thursday was well ahead of her most optimistic estimations.

"Alternatively," he was looking at her very carefully. "I could go, and you could stay here, and this _favor_ would be a lot less likely to get you killed. Which is a rather strange quality in a favor."

Hermione glared at him sharply. He stared right back.

"You said you'd make it happen."

"No, _you_ said I'd make it happen."

"And can you?"

He huffed a rather irritated sigh, sitting forward now, elbows beside hers. She wasn't sure whether to pull back but decided not to— refused to be intimated by him. "Yes," he said very quietly in spite of the silenced room. "But I have conditions."

Hermione raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"You do what I say. You don't poke around. _No_ Gryffindor theatrics." He glared at her. "I mean that last bit, Granger. If you think either of us are about to die to _mail a letter_ — you're fucking wrong."

Hermione raised her eyebrows even higher. "Fine," she snipped. "As it happens, I would also prefer not to die. And the letters are _important_."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I mean it. My plan. My rules."

She blinked at him slowly, mock-patient for him to continue.

"I take it you've seen the intel I've given Lupin on how international post is sent, or you wouldn't have asked me for help with this." She nodded. "Good. As it happens, you're rather lucky. This is one area where the Dark Lord has privileged me quite heavily. My presence at the post checkpoint won't arouse any suspicion." He smirked. "The Malfoys have a lot of international properties to maintain, Granger."

She gave him another slow, sarcastic blink. She couldn't help it.

"I'm due to send something for my father Thursday. It's a good guise if anything goes wrong. We'll do side-along Apparition, the wards are set up—"

"So you can't Apparate in or out without the Mark," she said waspishly. "I know, Malfoy, I read the—"

"You will then pass me the letters you are so _loathe_ to part with, I'll re-stamp and seal them, and we will be on our merry way," he interrupted. "You will also be Disillusioned the entire time, and you will stand in the corner out of sight while I do this."

Hermione made a small sound of indignation.

"Non-negotiable, Granger. I don't want anyone walking in and seeing the outline of your bushy head in the middle of the room."

She ignored the weak jab.

"Good," she agreed, somewhat grudgingly. She didn't like the thought of her being out of sight while Malfoy mailed the letters— what did that mean? Would she be able to still see him? Ensure he didn't read their contents?

"Thursday, then. Ten." He stood up, looking down at her.

"Right."

There was something distinctly awkward about any more of a goodbye than this, and she was silently thankful when he swept out of the room without another word.

*

Hermione paced the parlor several nights later, painfully aware of her choice of shoes. They were loud; obnoxious, even, which was something she had long secretly liked about them, the way they announced her presence walking down the hall.

She did not want her presence announced tonight, not even in the parlor, where she was treading carefully on the rug to prevent Ginny or Tonks from ducking their heads in to see what she was doing

It was quarter past ten by the time she heard the front door pull gently shut. She paused, then _click clacked_ over to the parlor entryway, poking her head out.

There he was. Malfoy. Not just in his usual long black traveling cloak but in— uniform. More fitted than the traveling cloak, newer looking, with buttoned cuffs and a high collar. On the left side of the chest there was some indiscernible insignia.

She stared for a moment, quite taken aback.

"Just wait till I put the mask on," he snapped in a harsh whisper. "Come on, Granger."

Hermione followed him out the door. He whipped behind him, wand aimed at her shoes, which abruptly ceased in their _click clacking_.

"Couldn't pick quieter footwear?" Malfoy said once they were outside. He appraised her sharply as she caught up to his side, picking up her strides to match him as they walked to the alleyway beside headquarters. "I've been meaning to ask, Granger, what's with the jacket?"

"What about it?" Hermione was donning the jacket again as she did every day now, the gun snugly in its holster underneath, hidden from sight.

"Didn't peg Hermione Granger for wearing big black jackets is all." He glanced her up and down again, then quickly looked away. "The fucking _Mary Janes_ make it quite the ensemble."

She scoffed in indignation, looking herself up and down. She looked fine; well, perhaps the red Mary Janes were a little out of place with the rest of her black clothing, but they were the only shoes she had at the moment.

Hermione realized with a pang she normally would have transfigured them.

Malfoy looked down at her when they ducked into the alleyway. "Remember Granger," he said softly. He flicked his wand over her and she was overcome with a strange cold sensation. "No theatrics."

He reached out a gloved hand. She took it gingerly. The black leather was surprisingly soft—

There was a crack and she nearly stumbled upon landing after her first Apparition in months.

Hermione whipped her head around, getting her bearings. They were standing in a circular room that reminded her irresistibly of the Owlery Hogwarts with its stone walls, rough wooden floors, open-air feel— then she realized with a jolt that of course it reminded her of an Owlery. It was one. Half the wall was lined with open rectangular windows, beneath each of which there were desks with paper, writing utensils, and seals.

"Ministry Owlery." Malfoy barely breathed the words beside her. "Former, that is. Letters." He held out a gloved hand expectantly.

Grudgingly, Hermione fumbled in her jacket for the two letters. It was admittedly harder when she couldn't see herself. When she located them she placed them carefully in Malfoy's hand, the paper becoming opaque the moment they left her hand.

_Radio Horloge, 91 Square de la Couronne, Paris, France._

_United Wizarding Nations (Nations Unies des Magiciens), Palais des Nations, Genève, Suisse._

Malfoy stared down at the letters, holding one in each hand, then looked back at her, jerking his chin roughly in the direction of the far wall.

"By the cabinet." She walked backwards, not taking her eyes of him, watching him stare blankly at the letters.

Hermione kept her eyes trained on Malfoy as he walked swiftly over to one of the desks beneath an opening in the stone wall. He set to work quickly snatching an envelope, scrawling the address down, and encasing one of the letters. He stuck his arm out the window and after a pause, an owl landed on his hand.

Hermione watched nervously as he tied the letter to the owl, pushing it gently back into the air. Malfoy opened a new envelope, flicking his gaze across the original before scrawling an address. He turned his back abruptly to her as he adjusted the new envelope, repeating the motion of throwing his hand out the window for a new owl and tying the letter to its leg.

No sooner had Malfoy released the second owl and turned to her when there was a sudden blast from outside, followed by yells. Hermione jumped, hand flying to the gun in its holster against her back. Malfoy swore violently, ducked his head quickly out the window, then swore again.

"Fucking hell," he muttered to himself, stepping backwards away from the window to stand in the center of the tower. He had visibly paled, the color draining from his face completely.

Malfoy looked from the window to the spot where she stood disillusioned then back to the window, as though deciding something.

He raised a single gloved finger at her. "Count to 30, then Apparate out," he said to her sharply. "The Order's collapsing the wards. Maybe count to 45 to be safe. Oh, this is just fucking—"

"What's happening?" She hated the horror that had flooded her voice, but she couldn't help it. This was not how things were supposed to go, this was not how things were supposed to go, she had no wand to defend herself, no way to flee without Malfoy—

He grimaced. "The Order is here."

"Malfoy wait—"

"I don't have time to fucking argue, Granger."

And then with a crack, he was gone.

Hermione removed her gun from the holster, feeling frantically for the safety. She flew to the open window Malfoy had just vacated, leaning heavily on the desk before it.

 _The Order was here_. How was that possible? Wouldn't she have known?

But of course she wouldn't, she realized with a twinge of bitterness.

Malfoy not knowing, on the other hand, surprised her more.

Hermione peered out the window, ducking her head out before wrenching it back inside. The skirmish below was mostly concentrated where she assume the Apparition wards began, a large arch clearly dismantled where about a dozen figures were fighting. Several masked figures were advancing towards the tower, leaving the fighting behind.

 _Fuck_. Malfoy would return, wouldn't he?

More bangs.

A memory in her head, unbidden: his cool hands turning her face upwards away from her vomit, looking down at her. Wiping sick off her cheek before the next _crucio_ hit.

He was everywhere and nowhere.

Gritting her teeth, Hermione nervously placed her right index finger on the trigger, clasping her left hand to her wrist to steady herself. She glanced out the window again, this time remembering her Disillusionment would make her effectively invisible from the ground below. The masked figures were directly beneath the tower; the fighting by the ward-line was harder to discern but certainly there were fewer fighters now than before. Who were among the fallen? Would Malfoy return only after the fighting? Would he be _able_ to return?

She was suddenly hit with a wave of helplessness, of the sort she had been repressing for weeks, holed up in Grimmauld: like she couldn't walk. The dreamlike sensation of running from an inescapable predator, when one's body doesn't work as it should.

She did not belong in battle with a Muggle weapon.

Her finger twitched.

 _Let the Order come first_ , she pleaded to no one in particular in her head. _Let Malfoy come back, let him be worried the right wards didn't collapse—_

The door behind her suddenly flung open. Hermione whirled around, hand raised straight ahead of her, and for a moment the world seemed to freeze.

A tall man— almost a head taller than Malfoy, who was sprinting into the room behind him— stopped stock-still in the center of the room, staring at her Disillusioned form. Malfoy blanched, stopped behind him. For the briefest of moments, no one moved. Then comprehension blooming, the man raised his wand, slashing downwards, and as he did Hermione fired her first shot.

Then her second. She flinched with each, the recoil shocking her, turning her head away involuntarily—

There was a pained yell, then Hermione felt an arm abruptly encircle her, nearly bowl her over, before there was a crack and she was squeezed from all sides and then—

She was standing in a dark room, unsteady on her feet. The arm around her abruptly shoved her away.

"Stay here," Malfoy snarled at her. He disappeared with a crack.

Hermione was shaking. She looked fervently from side to side, just making out shapes in the dark. The large form of a bed. Perhaps a dresser. It was hard to tell.

Minutes— or seconds— passed before there was a crack. The light overhead abruptly ignited, casting the form below in stark relief. Malfoy was looking at her with a livid expression, the air around him filling and crackling.

Before she could so much as properly register his presence, he whipped his wand in a slashing motion, wrenching the gun from her grasp. It clattered across the room.

"What the _fuck_ , Granger?" He advanced on her and she took a few steps back despite herself, almost knocking into the wall. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

She had never seen him so angry. So out of control. So consumed by his emotions.

"You just almost got us both _killed_ ," he spat, unceasing in his advance, pushing her back. His face was so close to hers that his nose almost met her forehead as he snarled down at her. Eyes hot and alive. For once, not leaving hers. "You are a _fucking_ idiot, Granger, I should have fucking known when I saw what you were trying to fucking mail—"

"Malfoy—" Hermione would never admit it, but the look in his eyes was making fear unfurl in her belly.

"A gun, Granger? A fucking _gun_? Fucking hell, you almost _hit me_ , do you have any fucking idea how to use that thing? Where the _fuck_ is your wand, you _fucking_ witch—"

His eyes were blazing down at her with an unbearable intensity. Hermione looked away at the gun, skittered into the corner, and inhaled a gasp of surprise when Malfoy took her by the jaw to force her to look up at him.

"Where. Is. Your. Wand."

She found herself quite speechless. His gaze was consumed by utter fury. The gloved hand clasping her jaw gave her a rough shake.

"Your _wand,_ Granger." He growled the words.

"I can't use it," her voice slipped out of her hoarsely, growing quieter with each word. She closed her eyes. To meet his was unbearable. "Since I was at your Manor— the wound— I can't do magic."

Silence. She didn't dare open her eyes.

"You _what_?" His voice was suddenly deadly quiet. Dangerous.

"I can't do magic." She whispered it. Her confession.

The hand on her jaw shoved her head back and she caught herself against the wall just before her head slammed into it. Malfoy spun away from her, hand over his face. When he looked back, his expression was dark, eyes black with rage.

"Do you mean to tell me—" That same quiet voice. "That you insisted I bring you to one of the Dark Lord's checkpoints _knowing_ you couldn't do magic. With a fucking gun."

"Yes," she whispered.

He slowly stalked towards her once more. Crowding her against the wall.

"You _knowingly_ almost got us killed," he snarled down at her. "You fucking selfish little _witch_. Do you have," he dropped his face down low over her, growling the words in a tone barely above a whisper. She shrank back as much as the wall would allow. "Any idea what I just fucking did, Granger? Hm?"

She was mute.

"I just had to go back and _kill_ that man. Because you are apparently so stupid that—" he seemed to no longer have words, simply shaking his head above her.

"And the _gun_ ," he barked a weak laugh, not breaking eye contact. "You almost fucking _shot_ me. _Shot_ me." It was like he had to repeat himself to believe the word. "I was right there. You didn't have the fucking sense to stay still so I could've handled—"

"I didn't think you would." Her voice was soft, a barely-there interjection. She looked up finally.

This seemed to take him aback slightly. His overriding anger at her made him seem to recover himself.

"Care to share exactly what you thought was worth risking both our lives?" he growled down at her.

"It was important," she whispered. Unable to meet his gaze, she fixed her eyes on the space just below his chin. "It was, I wouldn't have asked if..."

He laughed darkly, suddenly stepping away from her. "Oh yes, very important. Shall we take a look at what the letter says together, Granger? I must say, I'm dying to know."

Hermione's eyes grew wide as he reached inside her traveling cloak and pulled out the letter. He hadn't mailed it. But she had seen him—

He sneered at her. "You wanted to mail a letter to the UWN, Granger? An organization that has accepted a delegation from Britain exclusively composed of Death Eaters? You want to know who's on the delegation, Granger? Hm?"

"Enough." She made to grab the letter in a desperate swipe and he stepped back, holding it easily out of her reach. "I told you, that's not for you to see—"

She realized suddenly how childish their stance would seem if someone were to walk in the room right now. Him holding the letter in the air, her swiping furiously.

He flicked his wand in her direction and she was pushed backwards, hands flying up beside her head, pinned to the wall by invisible bonds. She inhaled sharply in shock.

Malfoy shook the letter in front of her. "If you thought I would mail this once I saw the address then you're out of your fucking mind. There's a _reason_ the Order hasn't tried to contact the UWN but I suppose you and your Gryffindor bravery— thought this was another escapade with Potter—"

He tore open the letter. She winced, watching his expression change, from abject anger to surprise to confusion.

"What the fuck is this, Granger?" His eyes continued scanning the lines of the paper, over and over.

"My _letter_."

He shot her a glare. "This is quite a list you have here." He stepped towards her a few paces. "You don't like Hestia Jones, I see— frankly me either, now that we mention it..." he flicked his eyes up from the letter to meet her gaze and she looked away. "How do you know these other people?"

"They're on— old records, some of them. Names from old Prophets. Household names."

"Hm." She could feel his graze prickling across her skin. "Not a single Death Eater on this list, Granger. Are you aware most of these people are in the Order?"

"Some of them."

"And the others?"

"I assumed in hiding," she said quietly, still unable to meet his gaze. "Waiting for the Order to win."

"They're mostly in the Order." She finally flicked her eyes up and found his eyes narrowed, examining her face carefully. She look away uncomfortably towards where her hand was bound on the wall beside her. "You just claimed that almost half of the senior Ministry officials who didn't join the other side are _war criminals_ —"

Suddenly he pressed his wand flat to her cheek, turning her face back towards him. She glared up at him, feeling anger beginning to prickle inside her rather than guilt and fear.

"What's your game, Granger?" It was almost whisper.

"I wanted the UWN to see if they could find refuge for Muggleborns— or intervene, or simply put pressure on Britain—"

"Not that, Granger." His wand was cool against her cheek. "Why are you attempting to discredit these people?"

"Because," she hissed. "They let this happen. They are complicit— all these deaths, every family that's been torn apart and they don't even flinch— don't care about us— they should pay for what they've done. They should see you can't just treat other human beings like that. They should never be allowed to— to— never be able to have that kind of role in wizarding society again— not after they failed to act again and again, it's their _prejudice_ , you're all such..."

She trailed off at the look in his eyes. Curious. Calculating.

Malfoy stepped away from her, sliding his wand down her face until its tip prodded sharply under her jaw. Eyes still fixed on her face.

"Well, Granger." He paused, running the tip of his wand slowly across her throat. He suddenly pressed it up against her chin, jerking her head up. "I'd say you owe me an apology. I think... Well, I think it's better for us to have a... _positive_ relationship after this."

What was he on about? Hermione suddenly found herself bizarrely wishing he was angry again. At least his anger had been easy for her to read.

She said nothing.

Malfoy pressed the wand more sharply into her chin. "I could leave you here to think about it, if you prefer," he said softly. He gaze flicked to her hands still pinned beside her head.

"I'm sorry," she snapped.

"For what?"

She glared at him, jerking her chin down. Malfoy stared right back, face now blissfully blank, but eyes still hot and alive with an indiscernible emotion. He pressed her chin up sharply again, stepping close to her once more. She winced.

"Sorry for what, Granger?" His voice was so soft it could have been mistaken for a lover's. If she didn't know better. If his wand wasn't pressed so firmly against her jugular.

"I'm sorry I almost got you killed," she ground out.

Malfoy's gaze ran over her face a few more times. Hermione grit her teeth.

"I'm glad you wanted me to mail that letter after all," he said quietly. Then he flicked his wand lazily towards the corner, catching the butt of the gun in his left hand before freeing her hands with another flick. "Apology accepted, Granger."

Before she could so much as open her mouth to question him, he had grabbed her by her right wrist and Apparated them away to the alley beside headquarters.

"Try not to get killed on your way to the front door," he said harshly, shoving the gun into her hand.

And with that, he was gone again.

*

**A/N:**

**I did not think I was going to update at all this week because I have two papers— but here we are.**

**I hope you all enjoyed how things are progressing between Hermione and Draco... and I can't wait for everything that's to come in the next few chapters!**

**Thank you to londonscalling98 for helping me brainstorm a plausible scene where Draco's cover doesn't get blown!**

**Love y'all. Thank you for reading so far.**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	9. Games

_August 5, 1997._

Hermione had descended the stairs in the early light of dawn. She had not slept since Malfoy’s abrupt arrival in the night, sitting in Ginny’s room while her friend snored softly, wondering what had been wrong with him. And what he was discussing with Lupin.

She crept through the living room as the night released itself from the world, purple dawn stretching itself slowly through the windows of the Burrow. 

As she suspected, Lupin was still awake, staring hard at several pieces of paper and a black notebook laid out before him on the kitchen table.

“Malfoy is gone.” It wasn’t a question.

He turned to her, and she saw for the first time just how young he was— certainly years younger than her parents.

“Yes.” His answer was simple. “Although I find it quite ironic, Hermione, that you happened to be the one downstairs when he arrived.”

“He disgusts all of us,” she said distastefully, drawing closer to the papers. Lupin shut the notebook but stepped aside to allow her to see the pages: it looked as though they had been removed from human resources files. “Not just me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him bothering you in particular, Hermione,” Lupin said softly. “No one would begrudge you it. You just can’t antagonize him needlessly— certainly not use _fabric shearing_ charms on him.”

She was starting to feel she wouldn’t be able to live that down.

Hermione picked up one of the pages, examining it closely. Name, picture, work history, place of residence, family. _Head of the Auror Department_.

“An individual we are desperately trying to convince to take our side,” Lupin said quietly. “One of the dozen or so we’re unsure about the status of. But I have a feeling this one will join us, sooner or later.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

Lupin shrugged. “Why doesn’t every wizard in Britain? Fear, I suppose. Or other— persuasions.”

Hermione didn’t like the sound of this last bit. She replaced the paper on the table carefully, scanning the others. A few Ministry names she recognized from the Prophet.

“These are the same? We don’t know which side they’re on?”

Lupin nodded. “Mr. Malfoy will be a help with these. According to him, these three—“ he gestured to several pages, including the Auror head. “—have already been at his Manor in the past few weeks. But I’m not so certain. Neither is he, nor his father.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment. The two stood in comfortable silence, both staring at the pages before them. “What was wrong with him?”

“Tortured,” Lupin said softly. He looked down at her. She nodded a single bob of her head. This was the most likely explanation she had been pondering upstairs. “He was here for quite some time. I don't think he expected us to send him back at all— that sort of absence is difficult to explain.”

“He wanted more protection than you gave?”

“Yes and no.” Lupin swept up the papers on the table with a single flick of his wand. Their corners lined perfectly. “He wanted protection in exchange for posterior information. Not just for him but for his parents. Amnesty for the incident at Hogwarts. Dumbledore might have given it to him; I could not.”

Another flick of his wand and a file appeared around the papers, binding them. “I’m confident in him as a double-agent, despite what you might think. He did well in his first twenty four hours— was questioned about his absence and even tortured for it— and yet revealed nothing.”

“You’re _certain?_ ” Hermione found this a stretch. No part of her trusted Malfoy. Certainly no part of her trusted him when under the Cruciatus.

“He’s an Occlumens,” Lupin said, leaning against the kitchen table and turning his wand to the counter where a kettle began brewing. “And quite a good one, at that. If his aunt trained him, there’s good reason to believe he’ll be able to deceive the Dark Lord, just as that family has for years.”

He smiled ruefully. “That is, when it suited them.”

Hermione bit her lip. She wasn’t sure which was stranger: walking into the Burrow to discover Malfoy tied to a kitchen chair, or Malfoy walking into the Burrow without so much as knocking before promptly getting sick all over the kitchen floor. Something about this latter scene troubled her.

“He was— very ill.”

Lupin sighed heavily. “The Cruciatus can do that. Prolonged exposure brings bouts of severe vomiting and muscle failure at best; insanity becomes more likely as time goes on. I doubt You-Know-Who would allow it to go on long enough to risk that. But he certainly isn’t averse to seeing his followers hurt when he sees a reason to encourage their fear.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how to respond to this, so she didn’t.

The kettle began to whistle and to her surprise, Lupin crossed the kitchen to tend it at the counter, extinguishing the stove with a flick of his wand before pouring the boiling water into two mugs the Muggle way, dropping tea bags in by hand.

She was glad he was here. That he had been here when Malfoy arrived, much though it disgruntled her how he had forced her hand with an apology.

“I know what you three are planning,” Lupin said suddenly. He didn’t pause from stirring sugar into their tea. “And I’d like to try to dissuade you from it.”

“Harry—“

“Not Harry and Ron. Just you. You could be useful to the Order but more importantly to Harry, if you remain behind to help with research and strategy. Harry won’t need you daily— just when you have breakthroughs.”

Lupin rummaged through the refrigerated cabinets as he spoke, producing a small pitcher of milk. He dolloped some into each mug before grabbing them by their spindly white handle and crossing the room, handing one to her. She had been silent, pensive, waiting for him to speak again.

“You are more use to the Order alive and with a full library than freezing in a tent somewhere, Hermione.”

She took a sip, thinking.

“And I know this won’t be enough for you,” Lupin said. She looked up sharply, meeting his gaze. “Because I know you, Hermione. I’m willing to— more than that, I’d _like_ to take you on as a… protege of sorts. Have you assist me in meetings and strategy planning. You could have a firsthand role in our operations one day, if you pick up on it through me. You are, and I say this as an old professor— the brightest witch of your age. Of the decade.”

Lupin hadn’t needed to say anything more.

*

_June 7, 1998._

Hermione stood stunned in the alleyway in his wake. 

She half expected him to reappear at any moment: the fitted black uniform, the gloved hands. The snarl, or the strange calculating expression he wore as he pushed her away. Or maybe instead, the perfectly blank expression he presented at headquarters.

He had never put on the mask.

Numbly, she fumbled the gun back into the holster on her lower back, shoving the jacket aside roughly. How many shots were still inside it? She needed to ask Lupin— but of course, she couldn’t without him asking why shots were missing.

Its presence did not bring her comfort as she exited the alley, practically jogging back to the front of Grimmauld, watching its stern double door materialize as she drew close to the wards. Suddenly she realized it was barely more useful than the unicorn hair wand stashed under her pillow.

Hermione did not sleep that night.

The adrenaline, first from the events of the Owlery, then from Malfoy’s furious face inches from hers, made every part of her feel electrified. Wired. Her blood ran hot through her veins as she laid in bed, pulsing uncomfortably in the open wound in her arm.

Not like her magic sometimes did. This sensation was wholly different: like she could feel her heart beating through every inch of her being, rippling through her skin, pounding against her bones.

She couldn’t shake the feeling. She was in bed trying to calm her racing nerves but then suddenly she was back there. On the floor at the Manor, her heart beat thundering in her ears. Building a steady pressure in her head despite its erratic rhythm.

Hermione sat up, throwing the blankets off her, and tore the black gauze off her arm to look at it. _MUDBLOOD_.

The letters were carved jaggedly, as though her flesh had torn rather than sliced. _MUDBLOOD._ She pressed her right index finger to the pale skin of her left forearm, tracing slowly towards the M, feeling the usual flicker of pain as she drew nearer.

She looked at it so rarely. 

She let her finger press harder as it inched towards the M.

There were three tiny freckles just beside it, like three little flecks of earth against her creamy skin, like the branch of some unknown constellation. She wondered, inexplicably, if they had guided where Bellatrix had started her grotesque design.

It had been stupid. She had been so stupid. She was not the same as she was.

She did not know who she was if she wasn’t Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age.

Hermione hated herself for it. _Hated herself._ And even though she still vehemently disliked Malfoy— no matter the bizarre events of the past few months, she couldn’t stand him, his surliness and expensive boots and “international properties”— it twisted her stomach to think of the snarl twisting his features as he advanced on her. The wild emotion in his eyes that wasn’t purely anger, but fear.

_You fucking selfish little witch_.

He wasn’t wrong, and it made her nauseous. Luck had saved her life so many times she frequently forgot it was just that: luck. It wasn't the first time it had blinded her or Harry, or even Ron, who would never be lucky again.

Hermione was sensible but she felt invincible. Until Ron. Until the day at the Manor. Until she waved those wands all those weeks ago and felt nothing stir within her—

And still she had felt so invincible as to nearly get Malfoy killed alongside her.

With a swoop she wondered how many people he had killed these past months. How man

y he had killed simply to maintain his cover.

Hermione pressed her head down into her right palm, eyes prickling. Perhaps it was Harry who had always been lucky, not her. That’s why her luck seemed to have run out. Why she had lost control over everything: her own body, her role within the Order.

She was powerless to get what she wanted. She had never been powerless before.

_What’s your game, Granger?_

Hermione shook her head at nothing, tears now threatening to spill from her eyes as she screwed them shut, pressing her head harder into her palm. She shook her head because the truth was she didn’t know what she wanted.

To get the Muggleborns out, yes, because it gave her a feeling of deep satisfaction to think of them safe on the continent. Not simply because they would be out of harm’s way, but because it was _she_ that had done it. What Hestia Jones had never seen fit to do or tried hard enough to do, Hermione wanted to do with a single letter.

To show she could.

But beyond that, she didn’t know what she wanted because she wanted _nothing_. She wanted things from possibilities that had become wholly severed from her reality: she wanted to hug Ron, she wanted to be Head Girl her seventh year, she wanted to be the youngest Minister of Magic. 

But in the skin she inhabited— the world she had found herself in— she suddenly felt there was nothing for her.

She struggled to stifle the rasping sobs tearing from her chest, painfully aware she could not silence the room.

*

“Gin, will you transfigure my shoes for me?” Hermione could barely stand to whisper the words. They were oddly humiliating: one of her first acknowledgements that she was helpless without the magic of those without her.

The two were sitting in the basement kitchen where meetings had frequently been held before Lupin inexplicably began holding them in the library; perhaps he preferred the small size of the room, the infrequency of visitors. They both had plates of bacon and eggs before them. Hermione found herself nauseous after the few couple bites.

_You fucking selfish witch._

Ginny seemed surprised. Most of their breakfast had passed in silence; an inexplicable, yet not uncomfortable wall built up between the two of them. Ginny glanced at her red Mary Janes before flicking her wand at them and swiftly turning them to a pair of small black boots.

“Thanks.” Hermione found herself strangely grateful that Ginny had needed no further instructions, no requests for what her shoes ought become.

Ginny ate a few more spoonfuls of eggs. Hermione sipped her coffee, feeling quite strange. She had only slept a couple hours and felt more like this day was a continuation of the night before: the same day Draco Malfoy had been gripping her jaw, demanding to know where her wand was, leaving her at Grimmauld with incomprehensible words.

“Did you hear there was a raid last night?” Ginny’s voice was hesitant. Hermione looked up and found her friend’s gaze to be averted.

“Was there?” Hermione placed down her cup carefully.

Ginny nodded. “Lupin says… it might have helped Harry in defeating You-Know-Who. He needed something from abroad and Lupin thinks it worked.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted painfully. “A raid from who?”

“Not from people at Grimmauld,” Ginny said. “Another branch of the Order— and it worked. We got access to international post for a few hours. Harry—“ Ginny leaned forward, voice exhilarated. “What if he can end the war in just a few weeks?”

“Yeah,” Hermione said blandly.

The comfortable silence resumed before Hermione paused.

“Does this mean we might send international post now? To help Muggleborns?”

Ginny didn’t so much as glance up. “My guess is no. We didn’t hold the checkpoint that’s been sending mail, apparently. Vacated as soon as the operation ended.”

“And Harry?” Hermione found this question even harder than the first, finding she didn’t like any of the potential answers skipping over her mind. “He— we got what he needed and gave it to him? How?”

Ginny pursed her lips. “I dunno, ‘Mione.” A year ago, Hermione might have corrected her for the pet name, which used to make her skin crawl. She felt indifferent towards it now. “I wasn’t— wasn’t allowed to know.”

Her friend vacated the kitchen not long after that.

She picked at her eggs before throwing them away, taking care to make sure Ginny left the room first. Hermione had found their relationship strangely strained since she returned from Harry, from the Manor— where Tonks and Molly had doubled their maternal efforts, Ginny had seemed unable to interact with her.

In the several week period Lupin had politically deemed her “recovery,” Tonks and Molly had apparently come forward in concern. 

To let them know Hermione Granger was too damaged from the war to eat breakfast would not be desirable. 

*

_What's your game, Granger?_

She had only half been taking notes all day. First she had replaced all her books on international wizarding law in the library, in the numb acceptance that they were unlikely to help her. With a twinge, she realized she had not dropped food off to the Muggleborns in two days, but she couldn’t bring herself to go.

Hermione would need to tell them she had failed. Beyond that, something about leaving Grimmauld after the previous evening felt… insupportable.

That sick, slow helplessness that descended upon her at the Owlery tower made her almost nauseous to think about. She shoved the thought away every time it bubbled up inside her.

Now Hermione was increasingly troubled by Malfoy. Not merely her guilt for having put him in such a position, having witnessed the fear and anger she caused him in a torrent of emotions she hadn’t seen him exhibit since that night at the Burrow. When she had healed him with her wand just before he exploded at her that he wasn’t pleased about spying for the Order.

In truth, it hadn’t troubled her until now.

_What's your game, Granger?_

Could it be that there was a game to play? And if so, was he playing?

Hermione had frozen with this thought. She was supposed to be researching goblin-made artifacts held by the tsar and tsarina in 13th century Russia, which she suspected had something to do with the international post the Order had apparently been so desperate to send last night. But she couldn’t focus; all she could think about was _him_ , his bizarre parting words, the way he asked her so softly, with such genuine curiosity—

_What’s your game, Granger?_

And “positive relationship”— him claiming to be glad she had asked for his help mailing the letter after all— it was making her uneasy. 

At first, these strange comments had been overshadowed by his fury, by her guilt at the truth in his words, her disgust at _herself_ when thinking about the glimmer of fear in his eyes. That she had treated him like his life was so expendable, lied to him and forced him into a situation he had no idea was so volatile.

But the more she thought, the more his parting words troubled her.

When the Order first reformed, Snape had been the one of dubious trustworthiness, although everyone whose opinion mattered to her— Dumbledore, Lupin, McGonagall— they seemed to trust he was wholly on their side. Obviously they had been mistaken.

Malfoy, she realized with horror, felt even less trustworthy. What was it Lupin had said? To maintain his allegiance, he had to have confidence in his safety after the war? 

Malfoy had certainly never demonstrated great affinity towards the Order. She supposed Lupin may have formed a closer relationship now, as he was supervised directly under him and saw him most frequently— but then, Lupin had also apparently been angry enough with Malfoy for the events at the Manor that he didn't want him anywhere near her.

According to Tonks, Lupin had also been wary of Malfoy’s prolonged absence afterwards.

These facts— not quite puzzle pieces yet— were troubling to her. She didn’t have a game. Malfoy might. And it suddenly seemed he may want something from her.

The library door opened abruptly and Hermione jumped, almost guiltily.

“You missed dinner?” It was Lupin.

She gave a non-committal shrug. “I wanted to continue in here. I thought it might be… important.” She gave him a meaningful look.

Lupin bit his cheek and looked at the ceiling. Hermione knew he was deliberating. 

“Yes. It is. A branch of the Order was able to send a request for an artifact that is believed to be held somewhere abroad. If the request comes back that the artifact is missing, Harry has reason to believe it could be one of the remaining horcruxes. It would a step towards narrowing his search.”

Hermione nodded, looking casually at the notes she had been taking. “And this post was sent…?”

“With some intel we received that allowed us to know when one of You-Know-Who’s checkpoints would have minimal guards.”

That must have been one of the reasons Malfoy brought her last night, Hermione realized with a twinge. He was most certainly the one to give Lupin this intel— it wasn’t just because of his father’s post, it was because he had been carefully monitoring when it was safest to go there. For Lupin.

“Did Malfoy help?”

Lupin looked at her strangely and she immediately regretted asking the question. “No. His presence would have been obvious and cover likely blown. The wards have a way of cataloging which Death Eater Apparates in and out. The Mark is remarkable that way.”

He smiled and looked like he might laugh, and Hermione forced a smile at his pun.

Lupin gestured towards the door behind him. “We’d better be going for the meeting. You can report any findings you have that seem pertinent— it’s quite a small one tonight.”

Hermione nodded, shuffling her notes and holding them neatly to her chest as she followed Lupin to the second library.

As Lupin promised, the meeting was rather small, most members assembled before they walked in. She was pleased to see Hestia Jones not among their number, though she felt a slight twinge at the sight of one of the former Ministry officials she had listed in her attempted report to the UWN sitting in an armchair, sipping tea.

She felt angry and defeated all at once when she looked at him.

“Hermione, could you start us?” Lupin asked quietly, standing beside her. She sat quickly.

“Erm, there hasn’t been anything of note yet,” Hermione started, glancing over her notes. “Although often times these small details actually become quite important later, but nothing at the moment stands out as being worth mentioning besides—“

The entrance to the library at her left opened and she cursed inwardly, knowing who it was before even turning her head.

Malfoy strode in the doorway, and when she finally glanced up she was shocked to see he was in his uniform again. After months of not seeing it once… he nodded to Lupin as he walked by, allowing his gaze to rest upon her for the briefest pause before he pulled out the chair directly beside hers and sat down.

“Hermione? You were saying?”

Hermione grit her teeth, turning her gaze away and back to her papers. She looked up to address the room at large, furiously keeping her gaze strictly towards Lupin’s side of the room. “Right. The only thing of note is the object when on “tour,” if you will, in the late fifties, which means it’s possible…”

The meeting was unbearable. 

Hermione looked up periodically towards the others in the room, and noticed they were all wearing expressions of distaste or irritation when looking in her direction. At first she thought it might be directed at her— but then she realized it was likely at Malfoy. Perhaps his wearing Death Eater robes into headquarters was something she had never seen before because it was… a faux pas. An unspoken taboo.

_What’s your game, Granger?_

Hermione decided then and there she would be staying as far away as possible from Draco Malfoy in the future.

What was he playing at? She sneaked a glance to her left to see him leaning back in his chair, casually scribbling in his black notebook. Hermione tore her gaze away furiously.

Certainly nothing had happened to him in the past day, no consequences for the night before. He looked… well.

At least, he didn’t look as ill as he sometimes did when he came to headquarters.

It even looked like he was freshly showered. She stole another glance before shuffling the papers before her, fixing her eyes on them. She cursed herself for not doing the same, wishing she had washed the previous night off her.

Hermione really didn’t see why gloves were a necessary part of their uniform.

She couldn’t help but feeling that him having a _game_ — if he wanted to put it in such a ridiculous way, she thought with annoyance— and her not having one or knowing what his was put him in a position of power over her. He felt dangerous, almost.

And she felt powerless.

Suddenly she made an audible _tch_ of disgust with herself. She was thinking about him too much. Hermione returned to her meeting notes, refusing to look up even when the meeting disbanded and the chair next to her slowly pushed back and away from the table, the dark figure within it standing, pausing, then walking towards the door.

She listened as his soft, heavy footsteps faded away before standing and collecting herself.

With hardened resolve she bade Lupin goodnight and exited the second library, avoiding the foyer and heading straight for her room. She would not be thinking about Draco Malfoy anymore. She would not.

*

**A/N:**

**Uploading this in the middle of a massive Zoom lecture. Thank you londonscalling98 so much for her amazing feedback as always!**

**I actually cannot work on chapter 9 until my papers are done, but that’s going to be another… fun chapter. I hope this one wasn’t too “filler” ish.**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	10. Libations

_June 15, 1998._

It was in the library that he finally cornered her. Hermione hadn’t even heard him enter, but the hum of a silencing charm passing over the room roused her from her note-taking.

Then the soft yet heavy footsteps, casually approaching. Leisurely. Unbothered. She tightened the grip on her quill, dipping its tip several times into her inkwell unnecessarily.

The steps stopped.

She refused to turn. Knew he was behind her, probably relishing any modicum of discomfort he could perceive on her person. Just like a Hogwarts, calling her _Mudblood_ — craving that reaction.

Refuse. _I refuse_ , even when hands dropped to the back of her chair. Hermione gripped her pen, his presence behind her insistent, prickling. She could feel his form leaning over her, begging her to twitch her gaze up, even just the slightest bit, just to see what expression he would be wearing—

_I refuse._

“Granger. I’d like a word.” His voice was low, soft. Placating.

She refused to look up. Still he leaned over her. 

“You’re having one now.” She kept her gaze on her notes.

“In private.”

“Lock the door.”

He suddenly pulled the chair away from the table and she jumped, looking up in spite of herself. His face hovered about a foot above her, peering down and looking almost amused.

“This might be a rather long conversation, Granger. We’re going somewhere more private.”

Hermione scoffed, turning her head away from him and standing up. She smoothed the front of her skirt before she spoke again.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said. Hermione swept her notes into their folder and began to stack her books into a neat pile. Privately she felt vindicated that her intuition of him watching her, lying in wait, had been correct. Hermione shoved her nerves aside. She could deal with Malfoy.

When she turned around, books in arm, he was holding the letter in the air and smirking at her.

“You—“ she shook her head, anger flaring within her. It really was, she thought. Just like Hogwarts. “Fuck you. You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” He stowed it carefully inside his traveling cloak with a rueful smile. “Not that I want to. But we will be having a word in private, or I’m heading straight to the basement kitchen. I think Hestia likes a cup of tea around this time.”

Hermione grit her teeth, staring at him, thinking hard. Fuck him. If anyone in the Order saw she had been attempting to report its members to the UWN, accuse them of being complicit in everything that had happened to the Muggleborns… They had wanted to send her away from headquarters for a few weeks of inaction. They certainly would do so if they found out. And possibly— terminate her position? Could they? 

_They could,_ niggled a little voice inside her. _You know they would_.

And clearly so did Malfoy.

“For Merlin’s sake, Granger,” he rolled his eyes. “I just want a word.”

She exhaled, exasperatedly slamming the books back down on the table. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Hermione followed Malfoy out the library door, huffing all the way as they strode down the corridor. Her black jacket rustled as they walked, an awkwardly loud sound for the billowing silence blooming between them. Hermione tried to force her inquietude down, relax the knots twisting in her stomach. Malfoy wanted a word. _A word_.

And was happy to twist her arm to have it.

Malfoy did not speak again to tell her where he was leading her, or even acknowledge her acquiescence. She forced herself to match his stride and shot him a glare in indignation when he shot an arm out to stop her, peering into the foyer before nodding at her to follow.

When they were out the front door, he simply said, “We shouldn't be seen leaving together tonight.”

She half jogged to keep up with him as he stepped swiftly into the alleyway beside headquarters. 

He held out a hand to her like he had that night those days before, and she eyed it apprehensively. He wore no gloves tonight and the pale skin of his hand before her felt like sealing a descent into some dark plunge, a tumbling spiral where she could neither catch herself nor control the space around her.

“Where are we going?”

He smirked down at her. “You’ve already been once, Granger. You won’t be in any danger. I promise.”

After another second of deliberation, she took his hand.

*

_June 13, 1998._

She could feel his gaze burning into her as she left the meeting.

Hermione hadn’t allowed herself to look his way, but she knew he was doing it again. Staring at her. After all these months of barely allowing his gaze to brush over her, as though her form were unbearable to behold.

Now every time she saw him it seemed to linger before he moved on.

Yesterday he had gone so far as to nod to her in greeting before even acknowledging Lupin. But then, maybe that was for a different reason. Maybe she was reading too far into this— so focused on staying away from him that she had convinced herself he was unable to stay away from her.

It was several days ago that he had made his second appearance at headquarters since their… rendez-vous. Hermione had been rushing to Lupin’s small third floor office, having lost track of time and nearly forgotten their daily check in. The moment she turned the handle, she had been met by an explosive voice that faltered as she stood in the doorway.

In the midst of Lupin’s clutter of files, defense instruments, and books were Lupin and Malfoy, standing mere inches apart, both gripping their wands in the space between them. The latter’s face was tinged red, only a couple small inches taller than his superior, but seeming several heads taller.

He just… took up space.

Hermione had felt her face flush when his eyes met her, the fury on his features melting away into something calmer, almost fervent. But just as intense.

“Granger.” He didn’t so much as offer Lupin a parting glance as he stepped away from him, brushing by her as he swept out the door. She crowded herself against its frame to let him pass, his unbuttoned traveling cloak whispering across the corner of her skirt.

Lupin had refused to tell her about their argument.

“Are you alright around him?” Lupin asked with an air of casualness she was certain he did not feel given the way he averted his gaze from her, busying himself with the disaster of papers stacked on his desk. “After the… Manor?”

Hermione had been so momentarily seized by panic Malfoy had disclosed something about her mailing the letters that she actually breathed a sigh of relief.

“It’s fine.” She offered Lupin what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “But speaking of the Manor, I have a request about… the gun.”

Hermione had been wondering how to bring this up since she realized that it was, in fact, very different from wielding a wand. The raw power of it had stunned her so much in the moment she had looked away from her target. It wouldn’t do.

Of course, she had still kept the gun snugly clipped into the holster under her jacket. Parting with it was not something she had even considered.

“So long as no progress has been made in my healing…” Hermione hated talking about this. “I need to be able to defend myself. I need practice. On moving targets.”

Lupin nodded, eyes gentle, stooped slightly over his desk as he leaned forward on his forearms. “Healer Boot hasn’t had enough of a chance to—“

“I don’t want to discuss that. I want to discuss my gun.”

Lupin seemed to almost flinch at the word. 

Malfoy had appeared at headquarters every day thereafter, sometimes present with her in meetings. When she snuck glances his way, he was never looking at her— but she knew he was. Could feel his eyes, see his head turn in the periphery of her vision, sense the way his body shifted when she entered a room.

She skirted out of the meeting that day, certain it was his gaze on the back of her head. Wondering if he was about to follow her.

The thought made her as curious as it did uneasy. She brushed both feelings aside.

Yes. Hermione would be staying far away from Draco Malfoy.

*

_June 15, 1998._

She was squeezed from all sides, suffocating— damn if this weren’t harder without magic— but was ready for the landing this time, not allowing herself to so much as step backwards to balance when they landed in a dark room.

Malfoy dropped her hand and stepped away from her immediately, flicking his wand overhead. The room was bathed in light, revealing a rather Spartan kitchen, nothing on the counter tops, everything spotless. Uninhabited.

Hermione whipped her head around behind her. There was a small living area, curtains drawn over the windows. Two doors against the wall.

“Where— this is where you brought me after the Owlery,” she stated before the question could leave her lips.

Malfoy nodded his head as he stalked towards a small coat stand, shrugging off his cloak. He was wearing a t-shirt, arms bare. The Mark twisted unmistakably on his forearm and she realized with a swoop that she hadn’t seen it since the day he joined them, bleeding all over the Burrow kitchen.

“What is this place? Is this— do you live in a _flat_?”

Now he turned to face her, eyebrows raised. “No. I live in my Manor, as you very well know. This is…” he gestured vaguely around him. “A halfway place, of sorts. For when I can’t go home. And can’t go to the Order.”

Hermione couldn’t stop looking around, trying to digest this. Malfoy had just brought her to a place that wasn’t quite home, but—

“What do you drink, Granger?”

She turned her head back to him, feeling caught for gawking at her surroundings. “I— coffee, usually.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then he erupted in laughter, a hand passing over his face.

Hermione had never heard him laugh properly before. It wasn’t malicious, not at her expense, merely amused. It was… surprising.

“Merlin, you _would_ say that,” he allowed his hand to slide down his face, revealing two grey eyes staring at her in utmost entertainment. “I meant _alcohol_ , Granger. I’m offering you a drink. A real drink, that is.”

“Oh, I—“ If Malfoy’s behavior had been confusing the last time they were here, it was infinitely more so now. “Erm, whatever.”

He turned and walked towards the cabinet, throwing her another amused sideways glance as he went.

Hermione stood awkwardly in the center of the kitchen as he removed two squat glasses from one of the cabinets. Peeking over his shoulder, she could see it was otherwise mostly empty. A flick of his wand and a bottle of fire whiskey flew from somewhere on her right side to the counter. Hermione watched him carefully as he poured a generous amount into each glass.

Finally he turned back around, proffering one of the glasses to her. She took it gingerly in her fingers and looked into its contents, unintentionally swirling.

“Jacket.”

“Huh?” She looked back up at him. He was taking a sip of his drink but his eyes hadn’t left her.

“Take the jacket off.”

She gave a huff of indignant surprise, placing the glass down on the counter with a clack. She removed it slowly, deliberately, folding it in half and placing it on the counter.

Malfoy flicked his wand and it hung itself promptly on the coat stand. “Turn around.”

She grit her teeth. So _that_ was what this was about. She turned, hearing his soft steps as he crossed the short distance between them. There was a tug and a jerk as he removed the gun. Hermione whipped back around to see him backing away from her, gun curiously aloft in one hand, drink in the other.

“That’s what I thought,” he said softly. 

The gun looked distinctly smaller in his large hand.

He stared at it a moment longer before gently placing it on the countertop beside the bottle of whiskey, leaning back against the sink.

“I’d like that back, Malfoy.” This entire interaction had thrown her too much— she needed to regain some control, knock him off balance before he got to whatever the “word” he wanted to have was.

He simply snorted. “Well, as you clearly don’t know how to use it, at the moment I’d rather not.” She glared at him. “Lupin gave that to you, did he?”

“Yes.”

“Because you can’t do magic.”

“Yes.” She practically spat the word.

“And he didn’t teach you how to use it?” Malfoy looked incredulous.

“I know how to use it!”

“Granger,” he snapped, temper finally flaring, cutting into the strange cordiality he had been showing her. “You came closer to shooting me than Watson, don’t tell me you fucking know how to do anything with that _thing_ —“ he sounded disgusted. “—except pull the trigger—“

“I’m learning,” she cut in. “I’ve asked Lupin for leave to learn. Tonks is helping me now.”

He chose to ignore this, sipping his drink before speaking again. “I have questions, Granger.”

*

_March 29, 1996._

She would never admit it, but the reaction she relished most— filed away for later replay and review, even used several times to conjure her Patronus— was Malfoy’s.

She hadn’t missed his gaze when Marietta walked in the Great Hall, somehow had landed upon him, of all people, as the heavily glamoured— yet undeniably disfigured— Marietta entered the hall and sped, head down, to sit beside Cho Chang.

It was… awe.

And it filled her with a satisfaction she could never explain.

*

_June 15, 1998._

“Hm,” she said carefully. She still hadn’t touched her drink.

“You can’t do magic. You said not since the Manor. Why.”

His eyes were fierce upon her. Hermione finally sipped her drink, savoring the burn in her throat, focusing on the way it slid into her belly— anything to distract from the way the words about to leave her were wrenching her gut.

“We don’t know,” she ground out. “Healer Boot said something about the wound your _aunt_ gave me being like a magnet. There’s magic in it, concentrated, keeping it open, but it’s not from the wound itself so she thinks it’s from me. And at the same time I found I can no longer channel my magic. But it’s not gone,” she snapped these last words. “It’s not. I still have it.”

Her stomach wrenched when she realized it had now been almost three months since she had been able to properly perform magic. Whenever the thought rose within her she stifled it, ignored it. At Grimmauld, closeted away in the library, and at Dean and Justin’s hideout, it was easy to pretend all was normal.

The past week with Draco Malfoy had changed that.

Malfoy was looking at the ground, nodding like he had been expecting this answer. Then he finished his drink in one, pouring himself another, turning his face from her.

“Next question,” he rasped after taking a sip from his refreshed glass. “You’re taking care of those Muggleborns in the letter? Hiding them?”

“Yes.”

He hummed in approval. Then his gaze roved upon her face, taking in her features in his uncomfortable, calculating way. She stared back, feeling indignant, angry at his question about her magic, angry at his aunt, his whole damn family, _him_ — for where would she be now if there were not people like them?

Hermione Granger had never been one to be intimidated by Draco Malfoy.

“I have a question of my own,” she raised her chin. “Why were you fighting with Lupin?”

Malfoy’s eyes darkened. “For not informing me that the Order was moving on the international post checkpoint that night.” He took a sip, eying her. “I suppose Lupin wasn’t exactly expecting me to also be waiting for an opportune time to send _mail_. Thinks it’s easier for me to actually be able to plead innocence if I’m questioned when it comes to offensive operations. But it’s almost gotten me in serious trouble more than fucking once. Lupin is just as fond of gambling with my life as you are. More so, actually.”

“Malfoy, I _am_ sorry for not telling you but I didn’t think you’d—“

“Agree if I knew you couldn’t defend yourself? Obviously,” he snorted. “Fucking hell, for someone so smart you sure have a streak of making pretty fucking stupid choices—“

He set down his drink with a clack, pointing his wand at the coat stand. The letter flew from his pocket and he caught it midair.

“You didn’t think this through, Granger,” he tutted mockingly, scorn coloring his features. “Shall we go through it again?”

Malfoy pulled the letter out of the envelope, opening it with a dramatic flourish. Hermione could feel her nostrils flaring slightly and took a sip, determined not to reveal her irritation. _Just like Hogwarts_. His fucking theatrics. Except now it was the two of them alone, and she was drinking his fire whiskey, and she suddenly realized the strange conspiratorial feel to their relationship had not dissipated in the wake of them almost getting caught at the Owlery; rather it had strengthened.

He was going to make her go through it all again. The guilt of what she had done— the callous way she had undeniably treated his life, her failure to think logically and sensibly— came surging up within her.

“Number one,” Malfoy said, discarding the envelope onto the counter. “You wanted me to _reseal and mail_ a letter to the UWN which means not only would it be shown to the Dark Lord’s representatives there, it would be traceable back to the checkpoint it was sent from with the date it was sent. Which means I would be one of a handful of people investigated because as you very well know, Apparating into a checkpoint fucking catalogs your Mark—“

“I didn’t know that,” she interjected.

“You should have, since you _clearly_ bothered to read the rest of the information I collected for Lupin.” He waved an irritated hand in dismissal, ring glinting. “So you could have compromised me that way. _Then_ we have the fact that you just essentially informed the UWN, and by extension the Dark Lord, that all of these fugitive Muggleborns are conspiring together and very likely hiding in the same location. _Then_ they would see Hermione Granger wrote the letter, which would have made you quite the little wanted woman, more so than you already fucking are.”

He was patronizing, condescending upon her, but underneath she could see the fury of the other night rippling softly. His mask of sneers and smirks betrayed his emotions much more than his Occlumency— but perhaps he didn’t want to use it on her. Not for this.

“Finally, Granger, we arrive at the literal stupidest thing you or Potter—“ he spat the name. “—or even fucking Weasley have ever done, and that is ask me to take you to warded territory controlled by the Dark Lord without. Fucking. Magic.”

“I know,” she ground out, angry at him for being right, angry at herself for being foolish, angry at his condescension. “I’m _sorry_ Malfoy, I _am_ , we should’ve Apparated out right away and I tried to stop you—“

He chuckled darkly, sipping his drink before cutting her weak justification off. “No, Granger. I would’ve fucking had to leave you there for a few minutes either way. My presence was logged by the wards, remember? You think I could Apparate out as soon as we came under attack? At best I’d be punished for abandoning post. At worst, I’d be questioned for having something to do with the break-in.” 

He sneered. “We were all fucking investigated that night. Me especially, because I wasn’t on guard and I arrived _minutes_ before they broke down the wards—“ he cut himself off, shaking his head and glaring at the ceiling in an expression Hermione could only describe as abject fury.

She remembered the way his face was blazing when he had rounded on her, practically snarling. When she had opened the door to Lupin’s office. That rage— and underneath, fear.

He finally took a healthy swig before turning his eyes back to her. Suddenly they went curiously void, all emotion sucked inward into his pupils. “Drink, Granger.”

Hermione drank. Malfoy refilled both their glasses, although neither of them had finished the amber liquid already swirling within them. The rim of the bottle clattered slightly against her glass but she wasn’t sure whose hand was unsteady: hers or his.

Hermione drank again deeply as he pulled away, placing the bottle back on the counter. _Collect yourself_. She did not want to feel like she was on the defensive, although privately she recognized Malfoy was right. Nonetheless. He hadn’t brought her here to chastise her, of that much she was certain.

She still didn’t know what he wanted from her.

*

_December 25, 1994_.

There had been something in Ron Weasley’s words that she knew would now be inside her for all eternity. Some crucial stitch that was sewn too tight to be snipped by even the sharpest scissors; an alien part of her, but a part of her nonetheless.

That Viktor Krum’s interest in her was so ludicrous to him. Implausible. That he hadn’t asked her to the Yule Ball himself because—

She was _different_. Placed in some imperceptible category, known in a _different_ way than the half blood and pureblood girls because she was somehow, despite everything she had accomplished, despite her sleek hair and expensive dress robes, not worth quite as much.

Even in Ron’s eyes.

Maybe it hadn’t been what he meant. But she couldn’t help but feel if she weren’t herself— he wouldn’t have thought those things. 

When the tears abated, Hermione slid her hands to her ankles, carefully undoing the pumps she had donned. Her second pair of heels ever. They had created a red line of stinging skin on each ankle where they had chafed as she danced. Somehow the cold air of the castle corridor stung more than their hard edges as she tugged them away from her skin, hissing in pain.

Hermione had never so ardently wished to be a different person. Something _other_ than what she was— for what she was felt insupportable.

A hot prickling sensation rose in her throat, overcoming her and she passed a hand over her eyes, about to succumb again.

There was a scuff of shoes, and the feeling froze within her. She looked up, almost irritated at having been disturbed in what she thought was a part of the castle far enough from the ball to not be interrupted, nor face Parvati and Lavender’s questions in the dormitory.

Surprised grey eyes caught hers from the figure not two meters from her, stopped dead after rounding the corner into the corridor.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other.

Hermione hadn’t taken him in earlier in the night— was not sure she had seen him at all. He was wearing fitted black dress robes with a high collar, blond hair swept back in a way that she now realized was different from how it had been when they were younger. No longer slick.

And now he was here— _of course,_ she thought bitterly— when the magic that had held her aloft, ethereal, before her peers earlier that evening was gone. Makeup ruined in dark black streaks down her cheeks. Hair undone. Feet red, one bleeding on the cold castle floor.

Malfoy looked wholly shocked and opened his mouth as if to speak before closing it, looking down. She saw his eyes sweep to her feet and she glared up at him, challenging.

God knew she needed an outlet for the emotion welling inside her.

Malfoy met her gaze. Then he nodded at her once, as if in greeting, and walked past her down the corridor, on his way to some unknown destination.

Too relieved he had said nothing to care any further about the interaction, she bowed her head into her hands once more, willing her tears away.

*

_June 15, 1998._

“That isn’t why I wanted to speak with you,” Malfoy said softly and she looked up, surprised at his change in tone. He was speaking in the same pleasant air he had greeted her in the library with, the grey irises of his eyes alive again, steady on her brown ones.

Malfoy drank. “I’ve been thinking, Granger. All week long.” He let his gaze fall upon her features. She could practically feel it tracing across her visage, reading her. 

“About what?” Her voice was cold because she didn’t know what else to make it.

“About you.”

Hermione covered her initial blink of surprise by drinking. She relished the burn as it slid down her throat, and she hoped it contorted the surprise on her features into the benign grimace she had so often seen on Lupin’s face when he sipped fire whiskey late at night.

“Hermione Granger,” he said quietly, curiously, and she took another sip to mask her surprise further. She had only ever heard him say her first name when referring to her in class, where “Granger” might have received a look of reproach from a professor. “Trying to destroy the reputations of half the senior officials of the Ministry. Maybe even have them investigated by the IWCC. Almost all of them in the Order. Strange. Not what I would expect from her.”

Hermione said nothing, keeping her expression stoic. Silence seemed the best strategy.

“Then I realized,” Malfoy took a step towards her, swirling the contents of his drink. “That is _exactly_ what I would expect from her.”

Hermione maintained her silence.

“You’re a rather fearsome thing when you’re angry, you know that?”

He took another step towards her, staring down at her with that insatiable expression that combed over her, as though he were memorizing her. Or perhaps contemplating eating her.

“I remember when that poncy Ravenclaw snitched on your little defense club.” His voice was soft. “And I’ve heard some very interesting _rumors_ about Skeeter. And who could forget,” his voice dropped even lower. “The _fabric shearing_ charm.”

She kept her expression as blank as possible, forcing herself to hold his grey eyes. They were dancing with some indiscernible emotion.

“It must be hard,” he said softly, “seeing those people every day at headquarters, walking the same halls as you, when you can’t make them _pay_.” 

He sipped his drink, and she realized how close they were standing, his elbow nearly brushing her chest as he raised his glass. Her nostrils flared but she refused to step back, feeling even the tiniest step backwards, show of discomfort, would give him some kind of advantage.

“I bet it makes you feel powerless.”

She clenched her jaw and Malfoy smirked. _Fuck_.

“Oh it does, doesn’t it? I bet you can barely stand it, Granger— I bet you’re even angry at Lupin, I know he’s not been giving any aid to the Muggleborns who have asked him…

“That’s what you wanted in that letter, isn’t it Granger? To punish them, to make them sorry, even to ruin them. You’ve always loved that feeling, haven’t you? Always needed to be the smartest in the room, always relished knowing that if need be, you could exact your own _justice_ on people like fucking Marietta Edgecomb.” 

He took a swig from his drink, seemingly waiting for her to respond. She gazed blankly up at him.

“Haven’t you, Granger?” he rasped, lowering his drink to the space between them. She merely blinked. 

Malfoy truly had been thinking about her, turning her over in his mind. She wondered fleetingly if, like him to her, she was everywhere and nowhere for him: the swot from Charms class, the perpetual companion of Harry, the shadow to Lupin. Inextricable from his memories, yet simultaneously an unknown entity that had yet to be uncovered.

“I was asking for safety for Muggleborns. A reasonable request. You’re making me sound like a fucking psychopath, Malfoy,” she said waspishly. He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not going around trying to _hex_ Hestia Jones. They just— everyone should know that this all happened on their watch. All the dead Muggleborns, Muggles— and they don’t even care to help us now and it _is_ their fault, because they— they also think wizarding kind have some little _superiority_ and they—“

She ground her teeth, turning her face away. “I’m not trying to hurt them, Malfoy. I’m giving them what they deserve.”

“And you’d like to be the one to do it.” She looked up sharply. He was staring down at her, gaze hard, as though she were the most fascinating creature he had ever seen. “Because it would make you feel _good_ , Granger. Wouldn’t it?”

She made a _tch_ in frustration, shaking her head. 

There was truth to Malfoy’s words. But to hear herself characterized out loud like that—

“They think I’m not _worth_ as much as other witches.” 

The words burned her throat and to her horror, she felt if she spoke another word, her voice would betray her entirely. She looked away from him again, staring hard at the counter beside her.

“You don’t know what it’s like to suddenly live in a world where… no matter whether or not you’re _better_ than everyone around you at everything you do you aren’t… valued like the girls around you,” she said hoarsely.

A buzzing silence filled the air between them. She collected herself, swallowing the raw sensation prickling in her throat, chasing it down with a swig of her drink. 

Malfoy was still looking at her. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face.

“No. But I know what it’s like to feel like _they_ don’t care if you live or die—“

Hermione whipped her head back furiously. “Don’t you _dare_ compare yourself to this. How _dare_ you.” She could feel anger bubbling up inside her, not simmering as it so often did these days, but truly rising within. Consuming her. “When _you_ — your family— your fucking _family_ —“

She was suddenly so angered she could barely choke the words out before she cut herself off, the raw, prickling sensation filling her throat and eyes again. She would not get this emotional. She refused to get this emotional.

Malfoy barked a laugh. The harsh sound reverberated in the empty kitchen.

“You think you can say no when the Dark Lord comes calling, Granger? Do you even how my father got involved?” There was a hint of anger in his voice.

Hermione didn’t care to answer. 

They stood like that for several moments, suspended in the center of the kitchen, his eyes fixed on her, her stare firmly on the counter. Struggling to stifle the rising tide within her that for years had been threatening to burn her alive.

His height before her felt positively oppressive. Had they ever been this close?

_Of course_. _When he was holding you by the_ jaw—

Malfoy suddenly stepped away from her, and she looked up in spite of herself. His back was turned to her as he poured himself another glass of the amber liquor. She hadn’t noticed him finish his drink.

If everyone had seemed thin and worn when she returned from horcrux hunting with Harry, Malfoy had stayed strangely imposing despite his tired eyes and the shaggy curl to his hair. The broad shoulders under his black shirt reminded her irresistibly of that day in the Burrow, staring at his figure from afar, unwilling to announce her presence just yet.

How things had ended up here, she did not know.

It always just seemed to… come back to him.

Malfoy did not turn around until his new drink was finished. He placed it on the countertop before him with a firm clack, long fingers staying wrapped around it for a moment before he turned around.

When he did, he was wearing the mask she had grown so accustomed to the past few months: the blank eyes, the indifferent curve of his mouth, the calm set of his jaw.

“I am getting at something, Granger. I’ve got a… proposition of sorts for you.”

Malfoy stepped forward, face not flickering once as his stare traced the space above her head, beside her ear, before finally landing on her eyes. Staring into her, fully Occluded. His voice was silky when he spoke again.

“I do believe we can both get what we want.”

*

**A/N:**

**Hi. I did not think this chapter would be out today. I also thought that it was going to include the events of next chapter— but it was getting too long. I hope you guys like it! Thank you for all the support you’ve been giving me!**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	11. Proposition

_June 15, 1998_.

"And what is it that I want?" She snapped the words, unnerved.

Malfoy smirked, but his eyes didn't flicker once, pupils large and relaxed. Hermione stared hard at his face, hoping to mask— in her own way— the previous burst of emotion that had threatened to make her burst into flame in Draco Malfoy's kitchen.

He had seemed entirely too interested in her anger when she showed it.

"I think you want justice, as you see it," he said. "But I think you want more than that, too. See, the Hermione Granger _I_ know wouldn't be content simply discrediting and humiliating these Ministry members."

She glared at him. "You don't know me, Malfoy."

"I know you better than you think," he crossed his arms. "I know you have the bizarre need to feel superior to everyone— oh please," he snorted when she began to angrily interject. "That much is apparent from every class we ever took together. Which was quite a fucking few. We've spent more time around each other in the past seven years than you've been around your own _parents_."

Malfoy certainly didn't know the status of Robert and Marie Granger. Still her nostrils flared at his mention of them, the raw feeling rising in her throat once more. Hermione pushed the feelings away, suddenly wishing she could be like him in this moment: occluded, empty, not bouncing between the extremes of apathy and rage as she so often did. Properly collected.

"I don't think you _just_ want to see these people held accountable." He narrowed his eyes slightly. As if waiting for her to speak.

 _I don't want anything anymore_. The truth horrified her slightly— made it hard to move from one day to the next, to complete the research Lupin asked of her to the caliber she may have at the beginning of the war.

"You should have been a Slytherin, Granger. I can practically smell the desire for that power— that control on you. It's rank."

"I— _what_?" She almost took a step back at his words before she caught herself, forcing herself to stand tall.

"I need you to not interrupt while I make this offer," Draco said, flicking his eyes down to the forgotten drink in her hand, then back to her eyes. "Finish your drink."

Mechanically, she raised her glass to her lips and drank in three burning pulls. He watched her all the way, and she made a concerted effort to flatten her grimace as she lowered the empty glass, clasping it in both hands before her, a much-needed shield between their forms. Her chest warmed and she could feel the usual sensation of her mind melting just slightly around the edges when she drank.

Malfoy gave a satisfied little nod. "I don't know if you realize it, Granger, but you're rather... uniquely positioned."

She looked up at him, fighting the excitement flickering in her chest, perhaps spurred on by the healthy amount of whiskey she had just downed. After a week of wondering: she was finally about to know what Malfoy wanted from her.

"Brightest witch of her age. Closest friend of Harry Potter. Apparent guardian of fugitive Muggleborns," he waved his hand, and she realized suddenly why he had asked her if she was taking care of the signatories of her letter. "Muggleborn herself. Working side by side with Remus Lupin, one of the highest members of the Order."

Hermione was holding the glass so tightly her knuckles were whitening.

"If you play your cards right," he said to her very seriously, "you could wield an incredible amount of influence once this war is over. In a way even Potter might not be able to."

"What—"

"Interruptions, Granger," he tutted, and she closed her mouth, glaring slightly. There was a pause as he studied her, and suddenly his occluded state was gone as his eyes bored into hers with an indiscernible emotion. "Are you aware that the Order is winning?"

She forced herself not to gawk, tightening her hands around the glass. "No," she breathed.

Malfoy nodded like he had expected this. "They've held the upper hand for a while now. Irritating when you're not in the loop, isn't it?"

Hermione didn't respond. Her mind was racing. They were _winning_. She tried to force herself to feel something, drag up some reaction to the news, but all she felt was surprise.

"The war won't last longer than another year," Malfoy was continuing. "Probably less, which means if you want to hold a prominent role in the post-war world, you need to start now."

"I haven't even said that's something I want—"

" _Interruptions_ , Granger," Malfoy said mockingly. "I know you fucking want that. You're apparently angry enough at the Ministry to attempt to internationally discredit and shame most of its senior members— I refuse to believe you have _no idea_ what you would want in its place." He smirked down at her. "So please, let me finish."

Hermione huffed. What would she want in its place? It wasn't something she had thought about, contrary to the confidence Malfoy had that she would want... what? Influence within whatever came after?

He was on a different page than her. It was making her feel disoriented and nervous— like she couldn't engage properly with him.

"Like I was saying, Granger. You've got the brains, the reputation, the status— and now you've taken on something of a savior role for a few dozen Muggleborns. You're known by the French radio network, assuming they received your letter. And you've taken enough of a stand within the Order for Hestia Jones to complain about 'the silly teenage Muggleborn' a few times a week."

Hermione's nostrils flared. Malfoy smirked down at her.

"Oh yes. I thought that might bother you," his smirk curled even further upward, eyes gleaming with that same emotion she had such a hard time placing. "My point is, you have all the makings of a witch who could become incredibly influential. And now," he said, voice dropping. "You have a cause for people to rally around. No one would support an eighteen year old witch trying to hold influence within the Ministry, it would be the exact same as the experience you're having now in the Order, despite your work for Lupin. None of what you are is going to matter until you find a way to _make_ it matter."

"And I suppose this is where your 'offer' comes in?" Her voice was cold.

This time he didn't chastise her for interrupting him. "Precisely, Granger. As it happens..." he cut off, looking up at the ceiling, as if uncertain how to say what he was about to. "You need to make yourself important. Known. You need people to want you to be the one in control. And as it happens, I think I know how to help you get there."

She did not speak.

Malfoy continued. "The government of Muggle Britain and you have something in common, Granger. They're quite aware of the precarious situation of the war, they're angry at the deaths, and more than anything," he raised his eyebrows at her slightly. "They feel fucking _powerless_ to do anything about it, other than accept the bones Hestia Jones throws at them, promising this will all be over soon. Wizarding wars are always like this for them— they have very little say, although a fair few know what's going on. They aren't—"

"They're considered subordinate to wizarding government," Hermione cut in. "Even though they're not supposed to be."

"Yes," he nodded. "And so if a promising young witch— already becoming well-known in wizarding society for her abilities, with Muggle parentage, a humanitarian who desperately wants to change the interactions between Muggle and wizarding society—" he gestured towards Hermione, mouth twisted just slightly upwards into what was more of a smile than a smirk. "I can imagine they would be quite willing to support this young witch in whatever endeavors she chose."

Hermione was silent for a moment. The overhead light of the kitchen seemed to buzz, the light of the room vibrating as Malfoy's words settled over her.

"You want me to appeal to Muggle government."

He shook his head. "No. I want you to become known to every individual in British Muggle society who knows about wizards. I want them to be impressed by you. I want them to _want_ you to have a more prominent role in wizarding affairs— I want them to look at you as the one person with any hope of changing things for them."

Malfoy turned suddenly, reaching behind him to grab the bottle of fire whiskey from the counter. He prized her glass from her fingers with a tug, meeting her eyes as he pulled it away. She wondered what he saw in them— what emotion she was betraying when she herself barely knew what she felt as his words buzzed between her ears.

He spoke as he poured. "You may not realize it, Granger, since this isn't exactly something taught in Muggle studies, but there's more interaction between high wizarding society and Muggle society than you know." He handed the glass back to her. She didn't touch it, too enraptured. "More of them know about us than you think— Muggles with _reason_ to know. Government, old aristocracy who've socialized with wizarding aristocrats for hundreds of years—" he smirked at the surprise that flitted briefly across her features. "And they don't lack utter agency as our old professor might have liked to imply." He snorted at this last bit.

Hermione suddenly sipped, relishing the respite from looking at his eyes. Suddenly something was very clear to her.

"You are those aristocrats." She looked back up, lip curling slightly. "The Malfoys have connections to Muggle government and society— you just look down on them. Let them fucking _die_ when it suits you."

Malfoy lay a hand over his heart mockingly, but his eyes were cold. "Now Granger, what was it I said about when the Dark Lord comes calling?"

She snorted, a disgusted sound. Something about the Malfoys mingling in Muggle society, having the same little connections to Muggle government that they had with the Ministry made her skin crawl, her anger rise within her. It made their participation in the war all the more appalling, every _Mudblood_ Malfoy had ever thrown her way even more unbearable—

"My father didn't singlehandedly cause the war when the Dark Lord _asked_ for his help all those years ago," Malfoy said coldly. "And our interactions with Muggle society have admittedly been... limited the past few years. But the Malfoys are known and respected almost anywhere, Granger. I can..." he lowered his voice and his frosty tone melted away into something placating, pleasant. "I can help you, Granger. If I'm right about what you want— I can help you get there. Help you make the right connections."

Now the corners of his mouth pricked upwards. "I have what you desperately need to make this work, Granger, or you'll be stuck trying to appeal to Lupin for the next two decades. I can introduce you to the right people— I've already put a great deal of thought into this— and I can even get some wizarding elite who are wary of the Dark Lord on your side, once this is all over. Throwing their weight behind you. I'll help you turn what you have into something _greater_."

There was a pause. Hermione finally did what she had been dying to do since they arrived in Malfoy's strange flat— she took a step backwards from him, creating much needed distance. She shook her head back and forth slightly. None of this made any sense.

Was Draco Malfoy really offering to introduce her to high Muggle society?

"What do you want from me, Malfoy." It was barely a question. It was a statement: that he wanted something from her, for _of course_ he did.

He took a step towards her, closing the distance she had just made. "I want a lot of things, Granger." He narrowed his eyes slightly, allowing them to trace over her, but Hermione was beyond caring that her disorientation was showing, beyond needing to meet him eye to eye in the bizarre exchange between them— she was utterly lost in the face of a week's worth of Malfoy watching her, thinking, planning.

Perhaps, she realized with a jolt, he had been watching her for longer than a week.

"I'll start at the beginning," he said quietly. "I want amnesty for my parents, which the Order has denied me. I want to ensure my birthright and Manor aren't seized at the end of the war. I want everything we had before. And more than that," his voice dropped even lower. "I want part of what you're going to have. If I'm to be making these introductions, helping you ingratiate yourself in Muggle society— I'll be expecting that as you come to be influential, I'll get to be influential by your side. And someday, when you have what you want and the Ministry is wrapped around your finger..."

His eyes ran over her twice, from the dark shoes Ginny had transfigured for her to the curls piled on top of her head. It was a long, calculating stare, and for a moment she wasn't sure he was going to continue. Then—

"I'll expect to be given a role that will make me even more influential in the Ministry than my father was. By your side. We can decide the details later. But you're going to promise me this. I will not be living on the outskirts of wizarding society after the war. I want everything back, including respect."

Hermione gaped at him. Then, surprising herself, she burst out laughing. It was all too much— Malfoy offering to introduce her to _Muggles_ , and now asking to for her, in some fictional, fantastical future where she was pulling strings at the Ministry, to allow him with his blood prejudice and _money_ and self-interest to hold some important role within the Ministry.

"This is—" she simply waved her hand in front of her face, laughing humorlessly, but unable to stop. "It's all fucking ridiculous."

"Yeah? I don't think so."

"Malfoy," she tried to steady her voice, which now that she had cut off her laughs, was rising somewhat hysterically. _It was all too much_. "You realize even if this were to work— if your Muggle connections really looked at me like that, if I even fucking _want_ what you think I do— it defeats the entire purpose if I allow your _family_ to have the kind of presence they had at the Ministry. That's everything I want to fucking change."

"Not my family, Granger. Me."

"Yeah. You. You power-hungry, classist, blood-prejudiced—"

"Blood-prejudiced? Granger, Granger, Granger... wherever did you get that idea? Though I disagree with classist too, and 'power-hungry' is a little harsh, I think that rather describes you better at the moment."

He was too calm, too mocking, almost as though he were amused by her reaction. It rankled her.

" _Really_." The hysterical edge in her voice rose. "You don't look down on me for being Muggleborn. You don't think you're better than others because you're a Malfoy. You haven't manipulated the Ministry for power and influence for _decades_ because you think rules are for the little people—"

He suddenly let out of growl of frustration, drowning out her words. "Not my family, Granger. Me. For fuck's sake, _me_."

"You call me _Mudblood_."

"When I was twelve—

" _Fifteen!_ "

"—because it was the easiest insult to throw at you. Not that it seemed to bother you all that much."

"It fucking bothers me now that I understand people want to _kill_ me for it."

He was quiet for a moment. Then a small grin that didn't quite reach his eyes tugged the corners of his mouth as he took a slow step towards her. She forced herself not to step back. They were now closer than they had been moments ago when she had finally given in to her urge to step away from him, his stature looming over her, forcing her to tilt her chin up in order to meet his eyes.

"Well that's the other thing, Granger," he said quietly. "I think it really is in your best interest to accept what I want in exchange."

"And why is that? Still planning to blackmail me with the letter?" Her lip curled. A few loose curls had fallen into her eyes but she didn't dare push them back and break eye contact. To make such a movement inexplicably felt like standing down, weakening herself before him.

"Because we haven't discussed what happens if the war turns again."

Her blood ran cold.

"You promise me this, Granger... if we work together on this, even if it fails, I can promise you protection. You're a smart girl. You know I won't be giving it to the entire Order. Now that we mention it..." he took a step closer, squeezing the distance between them into inches. "Most of the Order who know my status aren't Occlumens. And if we lose this war, I have no intention of dying. If it comes down to it, I'm sure you can guess what my plan is, Granger."

She could feel the timbre of his words through the air between them. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she could feel a hot flush of horror spreading across her cheeks.

"But I'd promise you protection, Granger," he said softly. _Crooned_ , her mind conjured inexplicably. "I would not harm you. I could promise to take you somewhere safe. Get you out. The Malfoys have properties all over the world. You'd have time to formulate a contingency plan if you wanted to establish yourself in a new country. Or not. You could stay hidden away to the end of your days, if you chose. They all have magnificent libraries."

Another tiny step forward. This time she had to step back or their chests would be brushing. "They're fair terms, Granger." That same soft, low voice. "Equal pay for equal work, and all that." He smirked down at her. "I'm not asking to ride your success, Granger. You haven't even been successful yet. I'm asking you to consider what we could do together— and being very honest about what I'll expect in return."

Hermione merely blinked as she looked up at him. His eyes were burning into hers, searching them, looking for something.

She turned her face away, unable to bear any of this any longer. She burst into humorless laughter once more, shaking her head.

If Malfoy was shaken by this reaction at all, he didn't show it.

"Think on it, Granger," he said in a low voice. Out of her peripheral vision she saw him flick his wand, catch something in his other. "I'm not expecting an answer just yet."

And before she could so much as breathe another laugh, his hand wrapped tightly around her wrist. There was a sharp _crack_ , pressure on her from all sides— then they were in the alley by Grimmauld.

"What the _fuck_ , Malfoy—" she glared up at him, head spinning. The fire whiskey certainly hadn't helped.

Instead of pushing her away or dropping her wrist, Malfoy suddenly pulled her towards him before she could stumble from the unexpected Apparition. She inhaled sharply, his face positioned inches above hers, eyes still burning as they seemed to seek something within her own.

"Think about what we could do together, Granger," he said in that low, urgent voice. He held her there a moment longer and she felt her cheeks flushing from the intensity of his gaze— then he finally pushed her away, shoving the gun roughly into her hand.

He disappeared with a crack, leaving her in the Grimmauld alley with an empty whiskey glass in one hand, and her gun in the other.

*

 _June 19, 1998_.

Hermione sipped, trying not to be reminded of the last time she had drank liquor.

Molly had raised her eyebrows in surprise when Hermione took up her offer of a drink, opting for fire whiskey instead of the pink plum wine Ginny was already drunk on. She didn't know why that had been what appealed to her; but it did, and now she stood sipping slowly on the far periphery of the garden, relishing its burn.

Perhaps this was one of the details of the past few months that should have alerted her to the fact that the tide of the war had finally turned: the Burrow had been re-captured. After months away from home, Molly, Ginny, and Bill seemed perfectly at ease in the garden, almost as though all was normal outside the multitude of wards, so numerous that they actually glimmered in the afternoon light.

It was the next detail of Ginny's birthday— this one quite major— that had convinced her Malfoy was being perfectly honest about the Order winning.

She had been Apparated to the Burrow by Tonks, attempting to contort her features into something less "brooding," as Tonks put it, when upon landing he was the first thing she saw: Harry.

Hermione had practically fallen into his arms. His hair was shaggy, almost to his shoulders, and he looked even more drawn than the last time she had seen him— but he was here. With them. With her.

"Only for a few hours," he told her gruffly, even as tears pricked both their eyes. "It's not safe for long, but Lupin thought for Ginny's birthday—"

Hermione only felt the slightest of irritated twinges that Lupin hadn't told her before, but then she turned to see Tonks grinning.

"A surprise for both of you," the older woman smiled. "Come on, Hermione. Don't look so annoyed."

She had smiled sheepishly in spite of herself before the three of them were accosted by Molly, who was making it her business to ensure no one had an empty glass in hand.

Now she found herself quite alone, even after the momentary glimmer of warmth she had felt when she and Harry traipsed into the garden as if transported into a memory: the redheaded Weasleys laughing, Molly scolding, Tonks flitting between all present parties, Lupin observing from afar with an expression of quiet happiness.

Hermione had been mistaken: she was not in a memory at all. The scene before her was too quiet; missing one too many people. The wards above and behind her made her feel trapped in a bubble, the same oppressive sensation that made her feel so confined at Grimmauld when surrounded by the looming London skyline. It was all wrong: everything was _wrong_ these days.

She had retreated to the edge of the garden, feeling uncertain how to celebrate alongside Ginny after the months of awkwardness between them. Hermione felt distinctly empty once more, finding that the more she looked around her the more a dull, throbbing sensation swelled within her.

It was a sense of ruin.

She was living in the vestiges of a world that had once filled her with so much wonder; and all while it had mesmerized her it had revealed the darkness within it, shown her that the awe and desire it inspired within her was bound to be destroyed. Even as it made her dream, it filled her with a profound sense of loss. Possibilities floated before her: yet they were not for her no matter how wondrous and close they seemed, for she was not properly part of this world.

The loss was now complete.

Wasn't that why she didn't want anything anymore? Hermione took another light sip of her drink. She was apathetic or she was enraged. Those emotions did not afford desires.

Except a dim vision had been filling her head for the past few days, when she allowed it. Late at night, when she always entertained her most sordid desires, when she told herself it was her exhaustion, when she was in the much-needed privacy of her room. And now, with a glass of amber liquor in hand, spreading through her and making her... want.

A vision of her striding some miscellaneous grand hallway, heads turning to stare as she passed. Someone following in her wake.

Sometimes, a scene like those of the movies she had once watched with her mother: a long evening gown, a necklace of pearls, a smile on her face as men in suits kissed her hand and listened, enraptured, to what she had to say.

Even once, her parents wrapping their arms around her, while she was dressed in the type of suit she had seen Hestia wear in and out of Grimmauld, fitted. Telling her how proud they were that their own daughter knew...

But she always had to push these wants away. They weren't real, she told herself. Intangible desires not worth having.

"Hermione?"

She turned, letting the images fall away. Harry was standing a few meters from her, looking uncertain.

"I'm about to go."

"Oh," was all she could manage.

Harry stared at the ground. Hermione noticed Molly had shorn his hair, now shorter than she had ever seen before. It almost made her want to laugh, but then Harry met her eyes, and the fleeting bubble of amusement abruptly popped.

"It's strange without him."

"Harry." Her voice was a warning. _Do not continue_.

"We never talk about him, Hermione," Harry looked up desperately. "Why can't we?"

Hermione turned away and finished her drink in one. "When the war is over, Harry, we can talk about him. Alright?" She sharpened her tone. Now was not the time for any of this.

" _Why_ , Hermione?"

"Because. I don't have room to." She shook her head. "I don't have _room_ for any of this. I barely have room to miss you for a few months, let alone my best friend—"

"Lupin told me you haven't been yourself," he cut her off, but his tone was colored more with frustration than sadness. "I would be with you every day if I could—"

"But you can't," she said simply. Emptiness settling back over her. "When the war is over, Harry, we can talk about everything."

But unlike the images that danced so enticingly before her— the gowns and hallways and turning heads— she could not imagine a future of her and Harry finally talking after the war. Could not so much as envision the chairs they would sit at, or fire they might stand by.

Could barely see his face, hear their voices together.

As she embraced him goodbye, the summer sun sinking away and turning the world around his retreating form gold, Hermione realized the inevitability of what she was going to do. Realized she merely needed to accept it first.

*

 _June 21, 1998_.

Draco Malfoy wasn't to be trusted.

She turned this over in her mind as she watched him come and go from Grimmauld, staring at the back of his shoulders in the corridor, listening for the quiet pad of his heavy footsteps at the beginning of meetings.

Hermione was alarmed by his plan if the war turned again— if defeat was imminent. And his desire to conspire with her... What would Lupin think if he knew Malfoy was so desperate for better options? So willing to undercut the work of senior Order members, figure himself in the future they envisioned for themselves?

But Hermione Granger could outfox Draco Malfoy.

She had her own game now.

And so at the end of the meeting, as she watched him watch her, caught his eye over the table, felt her skin prickle as he appraised her while she sauntered out of the room, Hermione was pleased for once to have his attention. To have him want something from her.

For now, she knew what she wanted from him.

Hermione waited in the foyer, knowing that he would be last just as she had known all those weeks ago, waiting for her favor. It suddenly felt like a different lifetime: a world where Draco Malfoy was cold and distant, unwilling to meet her eyes, everywhere and nowhere. She had the distinct sensation he was now about to be everywhere— and she was ready.

When she heard his approaching steps, she almost smirked before masking her features.

They locked eyes across the wide foyer, and she could swear he did the same.

"Malfoy," she said quietly. "I have terms of my own."

*

**A/N:**

**You guys don't even know how relieved I am to finally introduce the full plot of this fic. Like. Oh my God. I can't believe it took 10 chapters to set everything up.**

**Thank you so much for reading and supporting! It means the world to me.**

**As always, thank you londonscalling98 for fangirling with me over la tension.**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	12. Amendments

_June 21, 1998._

Malfoy was seething, pacing the floor of her room. “That offer was for _you_ , not fifty people I don’t know—“

Hermione was glad she had asked him to silence the room.

“Yeah, and if you want me to agree to any of this, you’ll be extending that offer.” She glowered at him and he glowered right back.

“I have another term, Granger.” He came to a halt before her, taking a few quick strides forward. “I won’t be doing anything that could get either of us killed. Ever.”

His previous smugness at having seemingly gotten his way had long dissipated. The Malfoy before her was neither the cold, controlled individual she had known for months nor the Malfoy who had poured her glass after glass of fire whiskey, smirking down at her. 

His masks were both gone for the moment, and she found it immensely satisfying.

“Beyond going around visiting Muggles while working for You-Know-Who, you mean,” she said mildly. Hermione was suddenly finding great pleasure in angering Malfoy, especially after their past conversations where she had felt like a mouse in a trap, the cat before it deciding whether to eat her now or later.

Malfoy scoffed. “High return, low risk. We’re going to be very, very careful. That’s a controlled situation. You know what isn’t a controlled situation? Hiding a bunch of _Muggleborns_ in one of my properties.”

He spat the word, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel it would have given him great satisfaction to say something far nastier. She narrowed her eyes.

“You offered to hide me,” Hermione interjected simply. “And you also said how very _important_ the continued support of Muggleborns will be. And _you_ want to be respected by them yourself, which brings me to my next condition—“

His eyes were steel upon her. She didn’t flinch.

“You’re going to sign a magical contract regarding this… role you want if we’re successful. You’ll get what you want,” she said quickly as he raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be more influential than your father. But,” she raised her chin. “That role is up to my discretion. You will not _use_ me to put yourself at the center of the Ministry and then subvert my cause.”

Malfoy stared down at her coldly. To her surprise he nodded, as if he had been expecting this.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll draw up the contract—“

She laughed, a hard, mirthless sound. “No. Oh, no. I’ll be drawing up the contract.”

He frowned slightly, gaze flickering to her forearm before he caught himself and looked back at her face, expression suddenly slipping back into its usual cold, blank state, the flicker of emotion in his eyes pulling inwards. 

She shifted self-consciously to shield her arm. “I can’t yet. But when I can, I will. And you’ll sign a Muggle contract today, vowing to sign it once it’s made.”

“What?”

Hermione had already turned, opening the bedside table drawer where two items were being kept: the useless unicorn hair wand, and a piece of note paper she had been mulling over for the better part of two days. Attempting to make it fail safe. Thinking of every loophole her slippery… _associate_ might find.

“You sign it just like a wizard contract. As a promise.” She held the paper before him. 

His cold expression had now turned incredulous. “And if I break it?”

“You can’t. It’s a contract.”

“Is there some kind of consequence if I break it?”

Hermione grit her teeth. Of course he would think about it this way. “If it’s a legal contract then you might go to jail.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, staring at her in a way that plainly implied he was thoroughly unimpressed. “This isn’t a legal contract.”

“No,” she snapped. “It’s just a contract. A promise. A record of you giving me your word, Malfoy, that you’re going to sign the magical contract I create in the future and acquiesce to my conditions on your position then.”

He gave her a long, hard stare. Then, expressionless, he snatched the paper out of her hands and walked to the far wall, conjuring a quill for himself.

“Care to tell me a little more about these conditions?” He flattened the paper to the wall, eyes running over the bullets she had hastily scrawled down.

Hermione lifted her nose in the air, although he wasn’t looking at her. “Just what I said. Your role will be at my discretion. Your influence will come from mine. You will not do anything to undermine what I’m trying to do.”

Malfoy didn’t respond, raising the quill without hesitation and scribbling his signature at the bottom. He thrust the contract in her direction. 

There was a pause. He was going to make her walk to get it from him. 

This was a spar between them, she suddenly realized. And he was vying for any modicum of control he could take back, uncomfortable at her now setting terms of engagement.

If Malfoy thought she was about to walk across the room, he was very, very wrong.

She held out her hand expectantly. Met his grey eyes. Tipped her chin up imperceptibly higher.

Malfoy stood for a moment. Then the corners of his mouth pricked upwards, eyes empty as he met her gaze. He strode across the room suddenly, contract held slightly aloft, before stopping just short of her.

Hermione snatched the contract away, smothering the flare of triumph that rose in her chest.

“My influence will come from you,” he hummed. Hermione lifted her eyes to meet his and was unnerved by their persistent emptiness despite his amused tone. “That actually works well, Granger. Considering the great PR our relationship will be doing for me as a Malfoy.” He sneered this last bit.

His expression was smug. Enjoying something privately. A final card to play.

“A reformed double agent suddenly madly in love with _Hermione Granger_.”

Now she did step back, bumping the bedside table. “I— excuse me?”

“Come off it,” he scoffed. “How did you think this was going to work? I was going to make introductions for you on the basis of you needing something? That would hardly get you anywhere. We need to be invited places, Granger. These are social events, not business meetings. Couples socialize with couples.”

Hermione was stunned.

“So I— _what_?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I’ll introduce you as my girlfriend. My poor, brilliant Muggleborn girlfriend I’ll have to hide from the wizarding world during this troubled time. Oh, don’t look so shocked,” he said, but he was clearly reveling in the horror consuming her features. “It won’t need to go further than _that_. But I need a reason to introduce you, to want to go Muggle places with you.”

She simply gaped.

“Granger.” Now he was serious. “It’s important you understand this. They’ll be wary of us. Their perception of us— of me— is that wizards only come to them when they _need_ something, when they want to use Muggles as pawns. To win their support, you need to seem genuine, and I can’t look like I have a self-serving reason to introduce you.”

Hermione was now shaking her head. “But— that shouldn’t have anything to do with you at the Ministry once—“

“It will,” he cut in silkily. “I want everything back and more, remember?” He settled his cold gaze on her. “And how am I supposed to get that if half of wizarding Britain associates my family name with the Dark Lord? Besides, you’d lose all your contacts with Muggle society if it became apparent our relationship was a ruse.”

Hermione suddenly realized she was crumpling half the contract in her fist. She set it down on the bedside table, crossing her arms when she felt her hands shaking slightly. Of course he would spring this on her now. He always seemed to be working to stay one step ahead of her— ready to knock her off balance if need be.

That was something she needed to be careful of.

“And you’re okay with pretending to— be my—“ She didn’t even know the proper word for it.

“It’s temporary, Granger,” he smirked, eyes still empty. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll never need to go so far as to _kiss_ you.”

Still smirking, he turned away from her striding to the door and waving a hand. The silencing charm was pulled from the walls. 

She kept her arms folded, watching as he peered out the door before slipping out quietly, shooting her a final, unreadable glance.

“I’ll be here early tomorrow morning. I want to get this started— _love_.”

Hermione had not ever itched to use magic so badly before, if only to force the door shut in his face with a satisfying slam. Instead he closed it softly behind him, turning the knob so it barely clicked shut.

_Love_. The memory suddenly twisted forward: _Go to bed now, love. Let the adults talk._

He had said it then to irritate her, condescend upon her, just as she was sure he had said it to her now. Taken pleasure in toying with her, watching her react to him, as he had always done at Hogwarts.

_There were two different masks_ , she contemplated as she tucked the contract back in the bedside drawer. She had simply grown more accustomed to his being cold, occluded, unable to so much as meet her eyes. 

Malfoy might reveal more emotion when he was sneering and smirking, just as she had seen him do so many times in class, at the Great Hall. But he was still putting up some kind of front.

Briefly she wondered what it was he might have been concealing at Hogwarts with his perpetual arrogance.

She brushed the thought away, smoothing her skirt as if to rid herself of it physically. Malfoy was likely hiding certain thoughts now, and that was all that mattered. Hermione was coming to think his occluded state was rather instinctive; but she had long wondered if it may be exhausting to him. If that was why he couldn’t meet her eyes so often. His eyes tired and red at meetings, trained on his notebook or above Lupin’s head.

Yet he had opted for his other mask attempting to persuade her to… be a partner of sorts. Had met her gaze. Been alternately angry and smug and persuasive. 

Hermione sighed, kicking off her shoes and laying over the covers. She winced, forgetting the gun strapped to her back, slipping a finger underneath her to tug it from its holster. She laid it gently on her stomach as she stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling, thinking.

She realized with a slight frown she probably didn’t even always know when he was occluding. Hadn’t his gaze seemed empty even as he teased her, smirked at her reaction to their false love affair?

Did he find it incredibly weak when he looked down at her and saw her true emotions etched plainly on her face?

_It doesn’t matter_. She didn’t need occlumency in order to keep her guard up. She would be using Draco Malfoy for what he offered her, nothing more; she simply had to be aware that he could have very well decided that what she promised him was not enough.

*

_June 22, 1998_.

Hermione waited in the parlor at dawn, nursing a cup of coffee between her hands. Its warmth was welcome, the parlor drafty and damp-feeling despite the summer season, especially this early in the morning. Before the commuters from the surrounding homes had so much as retrieved newspapers. When weak morning sun still had barely broken the darkness of the city, with its shadows and alleys and towering skyline.

For once, she didn’t feel the gloom of her surroundings. An excitement bubbled low within her stomach where anger so often burned, or aching emptiness ate away at her.

Malfoy had not given her a time but she suspected “early” had meant early enough that they would not be questioned nor seen on their way out: early enough that anybody awake would be in the basement kitchen, before Order members began to come and go through the large foyer.

She sat perfectly still on the long parlor chaise, waiting. While Tonks and Ginny always channeled nervous energy into movement, it had always made her feel frozen, stiff— desire to arrange her features into something she could control. Pour all her energy into maintaining.

It was sitting there, cross legged on the parlor chaise, mug clasped between two hands that she heard him quietly enter, the soft pad of his footsteps following the gentle thud of the front door behind him. Just as quiet as he had been leaving her room the night before.

Hermione turned, otherwise unmoving, to see him through the parlor entryway. He was holding something in each hand. His blond hair seemed almost luminescent in the faint morning light. Malfoy flicked his fringe back with a jerk of his head and sweep of his hand before glancing up the dark foyer staircase, perhaps waiting for her to descend.

She rarely saw him alone when he didn’t think anyone was watching. 

Hermione placed her mug on the foyer rug to retrieve later, tugging her large jumper concealing her holster around herself more tightly as she approached him. He whipped his head around before she had so much as taken five steps.

“Malfoy,” she greeted quietly. He said nothing to her, but when she reached him in the center of the foyer he held out his right hand, which was clasped around the collar of her black jacket.

“You left this,” he whispered. Face blank, controlled.

She snatched it from him, appreciative all the same to have it back. “I didn’t _leave_ it. You Apparated me away without it.”

But Malfoy had already turned and was walking towards the front door, leaving her to catch up with him.

Hermione tugged it on over her jumper, catching the door with her foot before it slammed shut.

Malfoy gestured to Grimmauld. “We need a better way to meet up,” he said coldly, timbre of his voice normal now that they were outside. He strode out the alleyway. “I assume Lupin will think you’re still visiting the Muggleborns. He can’t see us leaving together.”

Then he stopped abruptly, giving her a cold little smile. “For now.”

She glared, immeasurably uncomfortable at the prospect of Lupin eventually thinking her and Malfoy had some sort of relationship. Of _everyone_ thinking it— Harry especially. But it was a problem for later, perhaps when she had her magic and could set more contract terms.

“I’ll make you a portkey,” he said shortly, removing his wand and pointing it at himself. “Next time I see you.”

“What are you doing?”

The slowly Disillusioning Malfoy did not deign to respond.

“Malfoy,” she hissed. 

“You didn’t tell them I’m fucking coming, did you?” he finally snapped. “You’re going to explain to them first before one of them tries to fucking kill me.” He shook the now Disillusioned sack in his hand roughly before her. “Then they can portkey out. Or stay and rot.”

Hermione huffed, reaching in her beaded pouch for the pen portkey Lupin had made her weeks ago, carefully wrapped in crinkled wax parchment.

“Elbow,” she said quietly. She slipped her hand around the ripple of air he extended to her, praying it was the body part she requested.

There was a rush, and they were suddenly in the back garden of Dean and Justin’s hideout. Hermione breathed a sigh, staring up at the open sky above, appreciating its pink glow, the wisps of clouds hanging low along the horizon.

It would be a clear June day. Not that she would be able to tell at Grimmauld.

Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed to have his gaze trained firmly on the adjacent gardens and houses. Hermione could practically feel the cold disdain emanating from him, even in his Disillusioned state.

Wordlessly she turned, rapping on the broken back door before pushing it open.

She was greeted by the usual sleepy, appreciative chorus; some of the Muggleborns rousing from where they slept on the floor, some blinking up at her with bleary expressions before nestling back into the carpet.

“Haven’t seen you in a few days,” Dean said to her quietly, pulling her into the small kitchen where no one slept, the moldy tile floor hardly suitable.

“I’ve been busy, actually.” Hermione shot a furtive look into the back garden through the crack in the drawn curtains. “An opportunity for me— for us— has come up through one of our more… unlikely allies.”

She was treading carefully, and she knew it.

Dean folded his arms, looking at her with a furrowed brow. Hermione wished Justin had accompanied them. Of the two, he was less hot-headed— and Hermione, for all her years of reading books, quoting texts in class— found herself lacking the words to inform Dean Thomas that Draco Malfoy was standing not twenty meters away, with a bag of portkeys to a property in Austria.

She steeled herself. “The Order has had a double agent since the beginning of the war, who has offered to hide you.”

“Hide us.”

“Yes. Hide you abroad.”

Dean’s brows were practically knit together. 

“Who.” It wasn’t a question. She suddenly had the strange feeling Dean might have an inkling who the spy who had offered this was.

“Malfoy.” Hermione didn’t need to provide his given name. Dean simply covered his eyes with his hand, dragging it down his face with an expression of shock mingled with resignation.

“‘Course the slippery bastard is a double agent,” he muttered, turning away from Hermione. “And you told him where we fucking are? Is he here now?” He suddenly rounded on Hermione, but she refused to step back.

An angry Dean Thomas hardly bothered her.

“I did what I had to do for you,” she said simply, calmly. “No one was going to help. Lupin wouldn’t. Harry can’t. And Malfoy— he— I trust him with this. Be logical, Dean,” she said as he made a disgusted noise and turned away from her once more. “He’s been useful to the Order so far. He’s quite entrenched. He wants to win my good favor, and Harry’s—“ 

The white lies were coming easily. “—and what would he stand to gain by giving You-Know-Who a few dozen Muggleborns? Hm? He doesn’t need the money from the Snatchers. He’d have a thousand questions to answer about how he knew where you were. Think about it. Malfoy has good reason to do all he can to help the Order and Muggleborns after— everything. High return, low risk.” She echoed his words from the previous night.

Dean was shaking his head, back to her.

She waited a few tense moments before speaking again. “This is the only way out of the country, Dean. Neither of us know how much longer you can stay here. If Snatchers might suspect your location and are waiting to strike. And on my own— you know I can’t save you.”

Hermione waiting for another pause before finally adding: “Please. Let me do what I can.”

It was with a slightly triumphant bounce to her step that she walked back out into the garden as Dean, muttering all the way about what he would do if this were a trap, went to rouse the others from their sleep.

“Be nice,” she warned Malfoy, who was materializing from blond hair down. 

He didn’t meet her eyes. “As if you need to tell me that…”

He shoved a few wrapped portkeys towards her, which she stuffed in her jacket pockets. “They’ll need to share,” he said coldly. “And Granger? If any of them try _anything_ ,” he gave her a look, expression indiscernible, eyes roving to her black jacket. “I’d rather you shoot them than me jinx them, and end up with ten _Avadas_ in the back.”

He strode off towards the back door, leaving her wondering if he was serious as she walked briskly to catch up with him.

The living room, formerly filled with sleeping lumps tangled in blankets and towels, was now brimming with standing, murmuring figures. More of the Muggleborns had clearly left the bedrooms upstairs to gather. They fell silent when Malfoy entered, his steps not slowing once as he appraised them, expressionless. Hermione hurried in after him.

The hostility in the gazes directed at him made her realize he was probably perfectly serious. Not that she would shoot one of them for attacking him, she chastised herself in her head. Even if they did. 

“Thomas,” Malfoy said curtly. “Finch-Fletchley.”

The two boys were standing at the front of the room, both looking at Malfoy like they would rather like to kill him. Hermione brushed past Malfoy. 

“Take these,” she said loudly, so the whole room would hear. “Groups of four or five for the number we have, I think. Keep them somewhere safe so you can return if anything goes wrong. Not that it should,” she amended quickly, noticing Dean’s eyes narrowing more and more in the direction of Malfoy.

Malfoy said nothing as he pressed the bag into the hands of Carla before him, stepping back to stand by Hermione’s side. She almost looked up in surprise that Malfoy would move to stand close to her—

But then, of course he would. It was something she needed to get used to. Him being everywhere.

Justin stepped in front of her, holding out his hands for portkeys. “Absolute madness,” he muttered as they distributed them, Malfoy standing wordlessly beside them, cold gaze boring over the room in front of him. 

She nodded in quiet assent. “I’ll make it so you can come back soon,” she said, looking intently up at him. “I promise. I will— I’m going to do everything I possibly can so nothing like this ever happens again.”

Justin gave her a small smile, but the look in his eyes— the confidence— made her positively swell with the kind of pride she hadn’t experienced often since the start of the war. Perhaps not since Lupin had personally requested she work by his side.

They continued distributing the remaining portkeys, speaking in low tones, until somewhere by her right ear she heard the voice.

“Draco?” 

Hermione was so surprised to hear Malfoy addressed as such that she actually turned away from Justin mid-conversation. Malfoy did something of a double-take beside her, looking at the source of the voice: the tall brunette who had arrived with Dean and Justin all those weeks ago.

Malfoy’s features immediately resumed their cool mask. “Niamh.” He nodded in greeting. 

“Thanks for… all this,” Niamh gestured around her. Hermione turned back to Justin but was scarcely paying attention to what he was saying, one ear trained on Malfoy and Niamh.

She couldn’t quite make out Malfoy’s response over the dissipating hum of the room as people began organizing their portkey groups and departing. It wasn’t nearly as curt as the tone he had been using to speak to everyone else, including herself.

“Have you… seen Pansy recently?”

Niamh’s tentative question made two ill-fitting puzzle pieces push together in Hermione’s head. She forced herself not to look their way.

“A couple months ago. She’s fine. With her parents.”

It was a strange question to ask, admittedly, if Niamh and Malfoy had been… _involved_. Asking about the only public girlfriend Malfoy had ever had. But Hermione couldn’t think of another explanation for the girl to have brought up Pansy as though the name were a grenade to be treated as delicately as possible.

“Hermione?” Justin waved a hand in front of her face.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “Sorry. I’m listening, just—“

“This is a lot,” Justin muttered, casting a sideways glance at Malfoy. “If you ever need anything— _anything_ — if you’re ever worried about him… All of us would be by your side in a minute. We’ll find a way.” He reached out and to her surprise, gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Hermione forced herself not to show the welling emotion within her at Justin’s words. So much of this strange bargain with Malfoy felt like holding a baby dragon in her hands: unsure of what it would grow to be, unsure if the next time it opened its mouth it would burn her. To have someone— however far away they may be— in her corner was the kind of relief she did not know she needed.

“Thanks,” she whispered. And because she did not know what else to do, she pulled the last of Malfoy’s portkeys from her jacket pocket, offering it to Justin. “Get the others and go. Be safe.”

“Bye, Hermione,” he gave her a small smile. She watched him walk away, joining Dean and a girl she couldn’t recall the name of in the corner. The girl called out to Niamh, who was still talking quietly with Malfoy.

Hermione shot them glances out of her peripheral vision as Niamh departed, Malfoy watching her go. Niamh shot Hermione a furtive, thankful smile, looking for a moment as if she wanted to say something— then she joined the trio in the corner, the four of them looking awkwardly at Hermione before disappearing.

And just like that, she was alone with Draco Malfoy again. 

He turned slowly to look at her. “Let’s hope they don’t burn the place down, yeah? The library there is the best one.”

Hermione ignored this.

“Niamh?” She raised her eyebrows pointedly at him. “You two… seem to know each other.”

Malfoy caught her meaning immediately, but to her surprise, he burst into laughter, carefully controlled mask slipping away. 

“Granger—“ he raised a gloved hand as if what she had said was so hilarious he needed to compose himself. Hermione frowned. 

Finally he said, “Niamh isn’t interested in men.” He shook his head at her, an amused smirk etched on his features. “She’s more likely to come onto you than me.”

Malfoy turned abruptly and strode to the front door, making rather a show of holding it open for her. He was still smirking and Hermione felt herself flush with irritation.

“And by the way, that is not what it looks like when two people who have _shagged_ run into each other,” Malfoy said smugly as he closed the door behind them.

“Well, I don’t know!” she shot him what she hoped was a withering look. “It’s not like it would be the least likely thing. With you.”

This, unfortunately, only seemed to make him smugger.

“She asked you about Pansy. It was awkward,” Hermione snapped, rifling through her bag for the portkey. “Forgive me for wondering if one of the Muggleborns we are now both taking care of used to be _involved_ with you.”

“Don’t be jealous, Granger.” At this, she shot him a venomous glare. He was holding out a gloved hand to her, waiting for her to take it rather than use the portkey. “On second thought… do. It might make our show even more convincing.”

“I am very obviously _not_ jealous.” She did not cease in her search for the portkey, now up to the elbow in her charmed pouch. “How do you two even know each other?”

Malfoy had not put his hand down. “Pansy.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And how does Pansy know her?”

“Granger, I’m going to let you work that one out in your very large, very promising brain.” Malfoy waved his hand. “For Merlin’s sake, can we Apparate? I don’t have all day—“

“Got it,” she snapped, withdrawing the portkey, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, from the pouch. Hermione grabbed Malfoy roughly by the elbow before very lightly shaking the small pen out of its wrapping onto his gloved hand.

With a rush of air, the two landed in the alley beside Grimmauld, the portkey immediately extinguishing itself. Hermione quickly scooped it from Malfoy’s hand back into its wrapping, not looking at him.

She wasn’t certain how to say goodbye, but when she could no longer ostensibly busy herself with putting it in her pouch was forced to meet his eyes. He was looking down at her, arms crossed. The moment of teasing laughter disappeared from his features, now dark. Cold.

“I’ve fulfilled your terms,” he said. “Don’t forget what mine will be at the end of this.”

She nodded shortly. Malfoy appraised her for a moment before continuing.

“The first— and most important— person for you to meet is Richard Mottershead,” he said brusquely. “If this doesn’t work with him, I’ll have to rethink how to introduce you to _anyone_. He’s the most well-connected person I know,” Malfoy suddenly grimaced. “And unfortunately, he doesn’t really like me.”

“Imagine that,” Hermione snapped. Malfoy gave her a sharp look.

“The impression you’ll make is important, Granger.” He gave her a pointed look. “So in the meantime— think of ways to be charismatic? Practice your table manners?” He paused. “Actually, do you _have_ formal table—“

Hermione waved her hand to cut him off. Grimmauld was just behind her and the prospect of being free from Malfoy after what felt like far too long in his presence was incredibly enticing. “When are we going?”

“Wednesday. Late dinner. His wife already accepted.” He smirked as if something were quite amusing to him. “I’ll… _pick you up_ , and we’ll get ready together.”

Before she could have the last word, he was gone with a _crack_.

*

**A/N:**

**The way I keep ignoring my assignments to write this.**

**@keerthidraws on instagram did amazing art for Subaltern ft hermione and her gun! Go check it out. Oh my god.**

**Thank you to londonscalling98 for helping me panic about whether this chapter made any sense at all. Love y’all. Be nice to each other.**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	13. Alterations

_June 23, 1998._

It was therapy to her, body and soul: the ripple of the recoil in her arm reminiscent of how her magic once surged through her when she was at her most angry.

Of all the ways to announce her presence, this had to be the most divine. What did clacking Mary Janes, a reaching hand in class have in comparison to this? The way it seemed to make the air still, the revolution of the earth pause to behold her?

In the heat of the few battles she had been in, Hermione knew she was small, barely perceptible, her form lost behind her swishing arm and spellwork. A delicate elegance in her defense— but even at her most vicious, she appeared to be just that: defensive.

With each shot she fired, she could not help but imagine how different she looked with the gun. _Would_ have looked if she had the gun before. The way the spells might stutter around her the first time she fired it. The way she would hold it in her hands, not wild and whipping until she was a blur lost in the midst of war, but a commanding force advancing steadily. Stalking forward, gun raised, vision clear.

Offensive.

She and Tonks were in the center of a field, a great distance from London. The older witch was conjuring silver mists that took strangely solid forms, flinging them a great distance before bringing them charging back. Hermione would fire at each one, the sound reverberating to the end of the wards and sweeping back towards them, sound waves filling their ears.

The bullets, she had discovered, did not deflect off the wards as she had wondered, but rather seemed to slow, falling shy of them like an arrow in descent of its peak.

The itchy grass of the field tickled her calves through her tights. The black jacket was long discarded behind them, but still she felt herself sweating in the muggy air through her jumper. She envied Tonks beside her in shorts and a t-shirt, but pride kept her from asking for more transfiguring of her clothing; to ask Ginny once had been difficult enough. Besides, she couldn't help but feel if it wasn't done by her it wouldn't be done properly, and she had packed the little clothing she had precisely because she liked it, did not want it tampered with, could not let it go.

In the past months of the war, it was one of the few constants: the clothes on her back. Even she felt ephemeral— like she had lost herself over and over.

Holding the gun now made her feel like she finally knew herself again.

"You're getting good," Tonks said beside her.

"Only because you're making them all go in the same line," Hermione said loftily, although the praise pleased her all the same.

Tonks raised her eyebrows at her. "What would you prefer I do?"

"Make it more— real."

Tonks' silver figures abruptly disappeared, shimmering into nothingness in the morning sun. "Real?"

Hermione lowered the gun, a little disappointed. She wished she didn't have to be at someone's mercy to train; was sure if she had her magic, she could keep the figures moving without her wand continuously trained on them.

When she looked up at Tonks, the witch's eyebrows were knit together. " _Real_ , Hermione?"

"Well if I'm being attacked—"

"Lupin and I are going to great pains to ensure that never happens." Tonks was unusually sharp.

Hermione wasn't cowed. "And I'm just saying, we're practicing for a reason, and the reason is that you cannot be certain I won't need to defend myself before the war is over—"

"This is a _gun_ , Hermione." Tonks suddenly reached out and gripped her shoulder, tugging Hermione to face her and lowering her head to meet her eyes. "It's not _like_ a wand."

She met Tonks' gaze, unflinching. "I'm well aware what it is," she replied coldly. "But as we're presently at war—"

"No, I don't think you _are_ aware," Tonks gripped her harder, raising her eyebrows. "Do you— you would never do the _Avada_ , Hermione, would never learn it, would never succeed in using it if you tried— and that's what that thing is. But less accurate. More variable. It's— it's—"

There were a lot of things Hermione wanted to say in response to this, but she took mild satisfaction in the horror Tonks clearly regarded the weapon with. Inexplicably, it made her feel good to master something so shocking to those around her.

"—Muggle weapons are destructive," Tonks was continuing. "They're designed to kill and hurt—"

"And curses aren't?" Hermione took a step back, tugging out of Tonks' tightening grip. She raised her eyebrows.

Tonks faltered.

Hermione looked down at the gun, then back at the older witch. "Muggles aren't more violent than wizards," she said softly.

"That's not what I'm saying."

"You implied it." The tone of her voice startled her.

Tonks inhaled sharply. Finally she said, "You shouldn't want _real_ practice, Hermione. And you shouldn't ever need it."

Silence fell over them, the hot morning sun causing prickles of sweat to drip down the back of Hermione's neck. Both witches looked away from the other. The gun was warm in her hand.

"Why else would Lupin give me the gun?" Hermione turned her gaze back to Tonks. Challenging.

It was a rather awkward Apparition back to Grimmauld, the wards collapsing behind them with an almost imperceptible gleam.

*

She turned him over in her mind every night before they met again. His words, mostly. If she thought too long about the way he looked at her— attempting to discern when he may have been occluded without her knowing, what he could have been thinking— it made her feel almost embarrassed, like she was staring at him for too long. So she thought about his words: dismantled the already pristine gun and cleaned it, swiping and tracing her fingers across it, all the while thinking about Draco Malfoy.

_Think about what we could do together, Granger._

It wasn't that he wanted something from her, she decided. It was that he needed something from her: parts of her he could never possess, no matter the money and connections he seemed to be offering her.

And while she wanted what he was promising, she did not want it by his side. Malfoy couldn't be doing this out of good will, because he thought Muggle society should have more say in the Ministry, because he wanted her to be whispering in the ear of the Minister. What they could do together would undoubtedly become what they were doing separately.

"If you simply wanted to keep your _Manor_ ," she said, sweeping the cloth down the gun's barrel slowly under her fingertips. As if he could hear her, see her; be discomfited by the sight of her tenderly cleaning the kind of weapon wizards found so volatile and base. "I would be less worried..."

Not that she would have trusted him if that was all he had asked for.

His smirk, words like "temporary" and "kiss" twirled through her head next.

The arrangement was temporary. Temporary. She had to find some way to control what came out of it; for Malfoy certainly would be.

Lupin had been right, she realized, to a degree that was almost clairvoyant. Malfoy was loyal to his future, not to the cause, and he himself had been brutally honest about that from the beginning. Had he spent all these months searching for a better way to get what he wanted?

And then she had stumbled across his path, as though she had been zig zagging across his own steps only to meet him stride for stride at this crucial juncture. Hermione did not trust him not to push her back off course the moment it suited him.

Hermione knew Malfoy was using her. She just had to use him right back.

But "kiss." It was a word with lasting effect, no matter if they kissed or not, so long as people thought they... kissed each other. It was not temporary but permanent— not only a way to repair his name, but a lie they would carry together well after it ended. The prospect of maintaining such a falsehood made her nervous. The lie was meant to be public. Attract attention. For now it may be fine, confined to the Muggles Malfoy already knew.

When the war ended, she was certain the magnitude of their lie in the wizarding world would be dangerous. Exhausting. Hermione would have to renegotiate— perhaps even refuse to continue the ruse, find some way out of it.

 _Temporary, Hermione._ Malfoy and she were playing the long game. There was plenty of time for her to change the rules.

*

_June 25, 1998._

She could barely stomach the surreality of it all. Dressing for what she was about to do, clipping up her hair in a conscientious way, waiting in the foyer. Earlier in the shower, washing and shaving because she had a place to go to. Because she had to be clean not for the sake of sanity, to ward off concerned and pitying stares, but be clean to go _out_ ,to impress, to obey convention. The normalcy of it was foreign to her now.

Hermione thought of Healer Boot and her makeup as she poked and prodded her injured arm. How the Healer had put on makeup before a day of watching people suffer, even die. It made even less sense to her now.

Grimmauld had felt quieter to her the past few days, something that had escaped her notice given her... earlier preoccupation with Malfoy. Whether it was due to the recapturing of the Burrow, their alleged surge of success in the war, or simply the passing of the Order members authorized to come to Grimmauld, she did not know. But it was quieter— fewer interruptions as she worked in the library, fewer obligatory greetings when she walked the halls on her way to Lupin's office. She would have to ask about it later.

It was this recent quietness that gave her the confidence to wait in the foyer while most of the present members were still at dinner, arms crossed, unworried about being questioned for her presence. Hermione was stock-still in her nervous state; stomach twisting, bottom lip pinched between her teeth, trying to convince herself what she was about to do was real.

_You are leaving Grimmauld to have dinner with Muggles. You are leaving Grimmauld with Draco Malfoy. You have to think of things to talk_

"Granger."

Hermione jumped. Behind her, halfway down the stairs, was Malfoy, one gloved hand on the bannister. In uniform. Posture slumped; tired somehow.

"You're here?" The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"I was _summoned_ earlier." His voice was bitter but face quite blank under the dim glow of the foyer chandelier, refusing to meet her gaze. Malfoy glanced back up the stairs before swiftly descending them, motioning for her to follow.

Once they were outside in the cool evening air, he said, "Never wait for me like that again." He grabbed her elbow and steered her into the alleyway roughly. "Merlin, of all the people to lack common sense..."

With a crack, they landed in the darkness of his flat. Hermione stumbled and shot a glare in the direction of Malfoy, who had dropped her elbow immediately and ignited the overhead light of the flat. Apparating her like she was some kind of valise, with no warning...

But then she got a proper look at his eyes.

He was rifling through a cabinet drawer, eyes cast down, but in the sharp relief of Muggle electricity it was unavoidable. Malfoy's skin was grey, eyes puffy and red rimmed, their whites positively bloody looking. His fringe, usually swept neatly back, dangled in his eyes as he searched, roughly clattering through the objects of the drawer.

"Malfoy—" she stepped to the other side of the counter, lowering her head in an attempt to meet his gaze.

Malfoy jerked his head away, finally snatching a few vials from the drawer. He stepped back, weight on one foot and head tipped back as he downed one and began dropping the contents of another in each eye. He squeezed the small dropper with practiced delicacy between his gloved fingers. Hermione watched him in horror, noticing now that the glove was split, the flesh beneath stained red.

"What happened to you?"

Malfoy didn't answer, eyes still trained upwards, blinking slowly. With each sweep of his eyelids some of the redness dissipated.

" _Malfoy_."

Now he looked down but rather than meet her eyes he peeled back his glove with a grimace, revealing a rather large cut across his palm and thumb.

"Been thinking of conversation topics, Granger?" He slid his wand from his cloak, tracing it along the cut in a practiced yet clumsy fashion. She realized with a twinge that he was using his non-dominant hand, much like she did when she tried to use the unicorn hair wand.

Except, of course, it worked for Malfoy.

"Granger. Conversation topics? Manners?" Still he wouldn't look at her. He was grimacing, hand shaking slightly as it ran over the still bleeding wound. It was so deep she caught a glimpse of a tendon before his wand swept over it, slowly mending the skin and tissue. Dried red rivulets covered his wrist and fingers, the shadow of a bruise blossoming at the base of his palm. Briefly she wondered if he might have had a broken hand, mended out of necessity before he could get to the more... superficial injuries. If you could even call them that.

 _He's a mess_.

The realization of his obvious physical trauma filled her with a muted horror. With pity.

"Are you sure we should still go?" Her voice was hushed. The wand was leaving behind a shiny, angry mark on his hand where the wound had been. It must have been deep. "What _happened_ , Malfoy?"

His mouth twisted cruelly. "You sound almost worried about me, Granger. Keep it up, it's good practice." Apparently satisfied with his hand he tore the other glove off, wand between his teeth. "It's nothing that couldn't happen any other day," he muttered through the wand, now working on the fastenings of his uniform. "We're going."

His hand was still covered in blood. Hermione stepped around the counter as he shrugged off his uniform, flicking his wand so it hung itself. He seemed surprised by her sudden proximity, stepping backwards from her as she forced him to make eye contact. His eyes looked normal now, but face was still ashen, bloodless.

"Malfoy, stop. You said this was important. We can't go if you're—"

"Granger, shut the fuck up," he snarled suddenly, turning from her and striding to the sink, flicking the tap angrily and shoving his hand under. "Enough."

She stepped forward, hand outstretched towards nothing, interjection poised on her lips— then she realized not only was she not in the business of pitying Draco Malfoy, but Draco Malfoy was likely not in the business of being pitied.

Hermione stood awkwardly behind him. She was certain that Malfoy had just been tortured— his face told her that much. That he had been _summoned_ to Lupin meant something... serious must have occurred. Yet here he was, washing his hand the Muggle way in front of her, insisting on going to a _dinner_.

When he turned back around, wet hand cradled slightly before him, he was fully occluded. If she wasn't always certain when he was, there were times it was so obvious she wondered how it could even be helpful to be so clearly hiding thoughts and emotions. Malfoy's grey eyes were blank, relaxed; jaw set firmly but apathetically.

"Not another word," he warned her as she opened her mouth. "Come with me."

She crossed her arms across her chest and followed him, resisting the urge to huff. In truth, she was more worried than frustrated, dozens of half-formed questions filling her brain. About what had happened, about him, about the war, about him. About how they were going to act as a couple when he could barely stand to meet her eyes at the present. About him.

Malfoy led her to one of the two doors she had observed the last time she was at the flat— she shivered to think this was her third time there— into a small bedroom that she recognized immediately. The overhead light flared as he passed under it and Hermione paused her steps, looking around. It was as bare as the rest of the flat, with the bed and dresser from when she was in the room for the first time. There was a large standing mirror in the corner, a tall oval with gold trimming, strangely out of place.

As she glanced around, Malfoy strode to the bed where a long black dress, still on a hanger, was draped across the thick white blankets. He snatched it rather impatiently.

"For you to wear." His face was still perfectly blank. "You can change in here."

He was holding the dress out to her. The moment her hesitant hands took hold of the hanger he turned to the tall dresser and began rifling around with his back to her.

"Where did you get this?"

Of all the questions that had been flying through her head, this one now filled her with the most curiosity.

"It's my mother's." He waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "It seemed younger looking than her other Muggle attire."

"Oh, I—" Wearing Narcissa Malfoy's dress was an extremely uncomfortable prospect. "I thought you could transfigure my clothes a bit—"

Malfoy turned his head, eyebrow cocked. "Do you think I have any idea how to transfigure witch's clothes, Granger?"

She supposed she didn't, but didn't answer, holding the dress away from her with her arm outstretched as if holding a swinging snake by the tail.

Long sleeves, she suddenly realized. Sleeves that would hide the black gauze wrappings on her left arm.

Hermione was suddenly overcome with the strange image of Malfoy rifling through his mother's closet, looking for something he thought would suit Hermione Granger. Had he grabbed the first thing he saw, or considered several options? Held them up side by side?

If she were less uncomfortable, she might have laughed.

The non-imaginary Malfoy turned around, glancing her up and down. He was holding a hanger with what looked like a suit, although much closer to himself than she was allowing the dress. Now he raised both his eyebrows.

"Just get dressed, Granger," he said flatly, striding back across the room and grabbing the handle of the open door. "We're due in an hour."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Hermione and Narcissa Malfoy's dress quite alone.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered to herself. She threw the dress back on the bed where it crumpled in a heap, far less carefully arranged than it had been when she entered the room. Hermione tore her boots off, wriggling out of her skirt and tights in one. The room was cold, gooseflesh raising across her bare shins and thighs.

The absurdity hit her once more: changing in Malfoy's bedroom. Putting on his mother's dress. Going to _dinner_.

Hermione grit her teeth, pulling off her holster, jacket and jumper and promptly tearing the dress off the hanger. No matter how unappealing the prospect of donning Narcissa Malfoy's clothing, standing exposed in the bedroom for too long was much more offensive. She shimmied it over her head, letting the silk fall over her and drop down to her knees.

It was too large.

But of course it was, she thought to herself, stepping over to the gold mirror. Its ornate gold rim contrasted against the bare room around her. The dress hung loosely on her, the wide V of its neckline loose and low, exposing her. She bit her lip and pulled it up. It seemed the long sleeves were meant to be off the shoulder, but the dress was so loose on her that they slid nearly to her elbows.

Swiftly she turned, twisting to see the back of the dress. It was most certainly meant to be fitted, with a zipper she hadn't even noticed along the edge. The dress swept low across her chest and back in two parallel sweeping Vs. Hermione supposed it must be quite striking on the witch who owned it— but on her it was so loose that if she dropped her hands, the dress would likely fall away completely.

Hermione bit her lip, staring at her reflection, hands clasped firmly across her chest to keep the dress from slipping. Obviously her and Narcissa didn't wear the same size, she thought bitterly. Normally clothing sizes weren't even a problem for anyone— if anything didn't fit, if she found her clothing too loose or too tight, the alterations were simple enough to make. Malfoy probably hadn't even considered it.

_Because the bastard can fucking use magic. And I can't._

Hermione didn't know how long she spent before the mirror, spinning and adjusting her grip as though the dress might suddenly fit if she turned or stood a certain way. Bunching it in her fists, pulling it tighter across herself. Now that she considered it, even if it did fit, it wasn't the type of thing she could imagine herself wearing: the tightness of it, the way it was meant to expose skin.

A knock on the door made her jump.

"Are you ready?"

Hermione took a sharp inhale, swallowed her pride, and bade him enter the room. When he stepped inside, she merely raised her eyebrows at him.

"Didn't think we might be different sizes?" she said waspishly. She felt strangely vulnerable standing before him with his mother's dress practically falling off her.

To her irritation he smirked slightly, letting the door fall shut behind him. He looked freshly showered, pale complexion back to normal. He was wearing a Muggle suit, which was rather disarming; she had never seen him in anything except robes or his Hogwarts uniform. _Or his Death Eater uniform_. With its gloves and fitted shoulders. She tried not to stare at it when he wore it. It felt like witnessing something she shouldn't.

"Turn around, Granger." She shot him a dark look before obeying, turning back to the mirror and waiting for him to cast a shrinking charm from where he stood by the door.

She almost gasped when he suddenly appeared behind her, bare fingers pulling the silk fabric tight around her, bunching it in the back. His chest less than a wand's length from the tops of her bare shoulders, looming over her in the reflection of the mirror.

If he were bothered by their closeness— discomfited by the fact he had to brush his fingers across the fabric in order to make the adjustments— he didn't show it. Hermione bit her lip. Not twenty minutes ago he had backed away from her like she was positively contagious in the kitchen; now, he betrayed no sign of such aversion to their closeness.

"Move your hands," he said.

She hesitantly let them drop. He tightened his hold on the back of the dress, eyes fixed on the reflection of her torso in the mirror as he adjusted. Malfoy pulled her sleeves up, frowning slightly. She tried not to jump when his fingertips brushed twice against her shoulders.

"I suppose I didn't think it would be perfect..." he muttered to himself, letting the sleeves drop as he moved his hand to where the dress was bunched around her back. His fingers skimmed her shoulder blades and she flinched. He looked up sharply, meeting her gaze in the mirror, and she could swear a smirk pricked the corner of his lips before falling away. She steeled herself as she gazed firmly at the reflection of her stomach, where he had pulled the dress tight around her.

"Easy fix, Granger." Malfoy removed his hand and pulled his wand out of the Muggle jacket. He began tracing it along the fabric just beneath her shoulder, pressing his thumb firmly against the skin of the center of her back where he had bunched the dress. In the reflection, she could now see his eyes trained on her shoulders.

She kept her gaze fixed on their reflections. His thumb was warm. How many times had Malfoy touched her? Somehow it was never their brief Apparitions that came to mind when she thought of his touch, but the way his gloved hand had grabbed her by the jaw, forced her to look up. And that hadn't even been his bare skin.

It wasn't that just his thumb that was warm. It was his whole presence behind her, his knuckles through the fabric, his chest and shoulders and face—

"I'm serious about making a good impression, Granger," he said softly, grey eyes suddenly meeting her frozen gaze in the mirror. "This is all you. Mottershead doesn't like me."

He suddenly pulled her left sleeve upwards, closer to her shoulder, making her jump again as his skin brushed hers.

"Why did he even agree to dinner?" She raised her eyebrows at him in the mirror. He looked up from her sleeve, which he was now toying with using the tip of his wand.

"My mother and his wife are close," he said simply. "I'm a welcome guest for that reason. I asked his wife, not him."

Malfoy looked back down at her shoulder, stepping up to her side. She watched their reflections. He seemed to be debating something.

"Pull it tight and upwards around your chest."

His eyes flicked from the neckline of her dress to her face in their reflections.

"Like this?" Hermione moved her right hand back up to the left side of the neckline where Malfoy was adjusting the sleeve, hiking it up.

"No, not like— here, Granger." He suddenly slipped his fingers over hers, swatting her hand away as he adjusted the neckline.

Hermione watched their reflections, jumping as he reached around her. She exhaled quietly, straightening her neck, fixing her gaze firmly on the brown eyes blinking back at her in the mirror. She had the distinct feeling he would relish any awkwardness or discomfort she showed.

She realized with a jolt that their reflections were what they were going to look like as a couple— side by side in the mirror, suddenly they were transformed into what Mottershead would see. What everyone would see. Not Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, impossible in so many ways; but Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, young partners. In a suit and black dress, blond and brunette, standing with mere inches between them as though to touch one another was natural, desirable—

"What are— are you _certain_ we have to do it this way? Like a couple?" she said suddenly, twisting her head to look at the real Malfoy. The reality of the closeness of their reflected forms was less bearable than their actual proximity. It was bizarre to see him standing close to her, see what others would see when he touched her.

Malfoy let go of her sleeve, moving to the other one. She twisted her head to follow him.

"Yes, Granger."

"Malfoy—"

"I guess it's Draco for the next few hours, hm?" He slipped his fingers around her shoulder again, pulling the other side tight. She glared into the mirror.

"And I'm not Granger, then."

"Maybe I'll keep you as Granger," he said quietly, face hovering above her ear as he worked. "Or _love_. I'm not sure I can call you Hermione with a straight face."

She twisted her face back to him. "You just did."

"Mm." Malfoy took a step back from her suddenly, appraising her reflection. The expression in his eyes calculating, as it so often was when he looked at her. She felt her neck prickle and she turned around to face him.

"Shoes," he said quietly, flicking his wand in the direction of his bed where they lay abandoned in a pile beside her jacket and jumper. The boots turned to black Mary Janes with a small heel. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Well _that_ I can do," he said. "It's hardly any different than mine."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest as she crossed the room to sit on the bed, dragging the shoes towards her feet. The tightness of the dress made it difficult to sit comfortably. She felt him watching her, knowing if she turned to meet his eye it would be the same calculating stare.

She wondered if he was occluded when he looked at her that way.

"Granger," he said. Hermione glanced up from buckling her right shoe. He had his hands in his trouser pockets, square in front of the mirror as he studied her. It truly was disarming to see him dressed in a Muggle suit. He looked older but younger— somehow simultaneously more and less approachable. The whole scene reminded her of being a child walking into her parents room when they prepared for weddings, soirees, parties where children were not permitted. Her father ready in the corner, watching her mother bustle around changing clothes and accoutrements with unreadable eyes.

Hermione looked back down and continued buckling her shoe.

Malfoy continued, clearing his throat slightly. She resisted the temptation to look up, perhaps see him reveal himself to be just as uncomfortable as her now that their arrangement was staring them in the face. "A few things you need to be aware of. One, as I've said before, Mottershead strongly dislikes my father and me. Doesn't trust wizards very much. So you'll be on your own."

She nodded, buckling her other shoe.

"That also means whatever you discuss with him— be tactful. Muggles who know about wizards— the ones I know, at least— hate being engaged in conversation where they feel lost, but hate being condescended upon and having things explained to them."

Hermione looked up, finally meeting his eyes. He was looking at her curiously.

_He knows I know what that feels like. He just won't say it._

She reached for the holster on the ground, trying not to stifle the tide of resentment she often felt when she thought about the way she had come into the wizarding world: naive, easy to humiliate, insecure.

"Oh, no. Absolutely not." The holster suddenly was wrenched from the ground before her and she looked up to see Malfoy holding it in one hand, wand in the other. "I thought that would fucking go without saying. No gun."

Hermione shot him her best bossy glare, an expression she used to reserve for Harry and Ron when they were at their most boneheaded. "If there are no wards, I need a way to defend myself. _With_ wards I need a way to defend myself."

Malfoy snorted. "Where are you going to hide it, Granger? You cannot bring a _gun_ into someone's house. It's not a wand."

He sounded like Tonks. She glared harder.

"I'll have my wand hidden. You don't need the gun. If something goes wrong, I'll Apparate us out. End of—"

"Will you?"

It was a plaintive interjection. He blinked suddenly, looking taken aback. Perhaps recalling what she was in that moment.

"Yes." He looked away from her, twirling his wand in his fingers. "I will." He continued, his gaze not leaving the twirling wand. "So. Mottershead. Old money family, which is how we know them, and—" he still wouldn't look at her, but smirked slightly. "—he's in the House of Lords."

Hermione gaped, worry over the gun quite forgotten.

"Thought that would interest you," Malfoy said smugly. "Talk to him about that. What's more important is that Mottershead knows we're in the middle of a war. He'll have questions and opinions. There are certain things he has no idea about that you are not to disclose under _any_ circumstances."

She raised her eyebrows.

"He doesn't know how closely my family is affiliated with the Dark Lord," Malfoy said. The wand spun higher in the air as he twirled it. "He thinks my father has a... forced financial patronage of sorts, which in a way, it is. But you are not to say _anything_ about my status as a spy. For many, many reasons."

He glanced her way as if to ensure she was still listening which of course, she was.

"Good," Malfoy said, eyes back on his twirling wand. "No details about the war. None. Just that you and I are involved with the Order fighting on the proverbial _good side_." His mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile, eyes suddenly cold. "If he asks, deflect."

"I think he has a right to know." Her voice was cold. "If he chooses to ask, that is."

Malfoy nodded, smile twisting further. "I thought you'd say that. Someday you can, Granger, if that's still what you want, to crusade for Muggles. But trust me when I tell you Richard Mottershead is not the person you start that with. He's well-connected, but he's loud." Malfoy's tone was distinctly disdainful. "And if you want to ingratiate yourself with him, reminding him of all the reasons he doesn't trust wizards like me is not a good strategy."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded in assent.

"Good," Malfoy said again, seeming a little relieved she hadn't pushed the issue further. "The next thing is just as important— we're not saying you're having difficulty with your magic."

His gaze shifted down to her arm for the briefest of moments, where under the black silk they both knew there was black gauze; and beneath that, what they had dared to speak about only indirectly since the day he had demanded to know: _Where is your wand, you fucking witch?_

"Why." The word slipped out of her mouth, barely a question.

"Because." Malfoy's gaze was now fixed just to the side of her left ear. She tried to catch his eye but he wouldn't let her. "They're going to be... very impressed by your abilities, I think. The fact someone from the Muggle world is so talented and well-known. We should... play that up."

Hermione said nothing, looking at her hands in her lap. A few moments passed in silence before she spoke.

"They'll see the gauze eventually." It hurt to talk about. To be faced with the fact that even Muggles— she struggled not to think _other_ Muggles— would be disappointed if they knew. See her differently.

She looked up to see Malfoy was nodding slightly, eyes still fixed beside her head. "Play it up as a tragic plight you've suffered during the war for your Muggleborn status. Wound only, not the magic bit. We can use it to our advantage."

Hermione let her gaze fall to her lap again. Her hands had betrayed her, twisting themselves in the looser fabric of the dress skirt. She quickly let it go.

It went without saying, she supposed, that the wound would never be attributed to Malfoy's aunt. She wondered if Mottershead might even know her. The thought made her feel strangely empty.

She blinked, hollowness being shunted to the side within her as suddenly a pair of dark slacks appeared in her line of vision.

Malfoy stood before her, one hand extended like he did when they were going to Apparate. An invitation. Or maybe a solicitation, when it came from him.

"One last thing, Granger." His voice was quiet, eyes now fixed firmly on hers. Unreadable. "Be vague about our relationship. They won't second guess it, if we put on a little show."

Hermione forced herself not to bite her lip, or furrow her brow. He had said one hour, she realized. How long had they spent preparing? When she took his hand, would it finally be the start of the long game, the scheme she had been contemplating every night since he made the offer?

When she took his hand, would she be resigned to be Draco Malfoy's until the end of the night? For every other night yet to come?

"You need to be comfortable touching me." He raised his eyebrows as he looked down at her, the emotion within his eyes still indiscernible. For the umpteenth time she wondered if he was occluded. "You can't jump like you did in front of the mirror. You need to be able to take my hand. _Hermione_."

His face did not change when he spoke. He had been bluffing with all the _Granger_ and _love_ talk.

Hesitantly— with a slow, dreamlike motion, surreal by virtue of its almost painful reality— she lifted her hand in the air between them. Placed her fingers delicately upon his. They closed around hers, thumb enveloping them together. Slowly he pulled his hand up and she blinked, looking upwards to meet his eyes. They had not left her face.

Malfoy tugged her upwards, gently, and she found herself following automatically, their hands coming to rest in the space between them. He did not let go even as she straightened, forcing her shoulders to relax. Even as she rearranged her features, closing her eyes to cool the flush that crept up her cheeks as the warmth of his hand held hers.

She opened her eyes. He was still looking at her with that ardent yet unknowable expression.

"Draco." Her voice wavered only slightly. "Shouldn't we be leaving?"

*

**A/N:**

**I had to adjust my chapter plan because otherwise this chapter would be twice as long: next chapter, we have the dinner party... chez Mottershead.**

**Thank you to londonscalling98 and actanonverba7 (aka Miss Mum) who both gave me feedback on this chapter!**

**Some of your comments actually send me, so please keep leaving them. I need the comedic relief.**

**Love,**

**Fiona**


	14. Engagement

It was like the first time she entered Hogwarts; or, for the amount of sick she felt, when she walked into the Quidditch stands before watching Harry battle a dragon. Malfoy kept glancing down at her as they approached the house from where they had landed in the back garden, pebbles crunching under their shoes.

As the tiny stones twisted beneath her feet, she half hoped she might trip, break her ankle. Forget Malfoy, forget all of this.

He had a hand resting gently on the small of her back. For once, his touch wasn't disruptive to her; she barely noticed. His step was longer than hers, with the way the dress wrapped her thighs together. The stones required a careful step as they slid and shifted under her heels, and more than once she had to catch herself. It was a slow ascent from the sloping grounds to the enormous white building before them— too large for a house, but too small for a manor.

As they rounded the corner of the white stone, he suddenly tugged her to the side, hand curling briefly around her waist before he let go entirely.

"You look like you're about to vomit," he hissed, shooting a furtive glance towards the front windows. Hermione shook her head.

"I'm nervous," she snapped. "You're the one who keeps saying this is _riding_ on me—"

"It is, that's why you can't go in there looking like that—" Malfoy cut off abruptly, reaching into his jacket. A small purple vial was in his hand. "Pepper-Up Potion," he snapped at her. "Drink. Now."

She snatched it away from him, secretly grateful. As she unstoppered it, trying to keep her hands from shaking knowing his gaze was upon her, she asked him what she had been tempted to since they had been getting ready.

"Are you occluded? Will you be occluded?"

"What?"

He blinked down at her, eyebrows furrowed. Hermione held his gaze as she tipped her head back and swallowed, not wanting to miss if they betrayed a flicker of emotion. When she was finished, she raised her eyebrows at him.

"You occlude. I can't always tell when." Hermione presented the empty vial to him, poised between her thumb and forefinger.

Before he could respond, they were interrupted.

"Draco Malfoy?"

They both whipped around, Malfoy swiftly taking the vial from her fingers and replacing it in his jacket so smoothly she doubted the girl whom the voice belonged to would notice. But then—

"What are we drinking?"

"Ruby," Malfoy said stiffly. "Nice to see you."

The girl was looking at Hermione with amusement, appraising her lightly. She was tall, but couldn't be older than fifteen or sixteen, Hermione decided— her oval face soft with a girlish puffiness the war had drawn out of Hermione's. Everything else about her made Hermione feel impossibly young, immature: the sleek sweep of her dark hair, pink stain on her full lips, the gentle yet cold expression in her green eyes.

"Rude not to share." She was speaking to Hermione, not Draco. "I'm Ruby. Pleased to meet you, _Hermione_."

Hermione managed a stiff smile, fueled by the warm burn of Pepper-Up in her chest.

"Really though, do you have more?" Now she did turn to Malfoy, who was regarding Ruby with a slightly furrowed brow. He rearranged his features immediately. "My parents won't give me more than a glass."

Her voice had a plaintive whining quality that immediately made Hermione feel older again.

"It was a potion," Malfoy said simply. "Hermione was nervous."

Hermione looked up at him, surprised he would immediately admit that sort of thing— but found he was smirking down at her almost playfully. His eyes were blank.

 _So he was occluded. Bastard_. Suddenly she felt very alone, as though Malfoy were separated from her by an impenetrable glass, unreachable.

She pursed her lips at him, wondering how she was expected to respond.

"Don't be," Ruby said breathily, eyes now less cold as Hermione snapped her gaze away from Malfoy's. "Mum is excited to meet you."

Hermione wondered if the thought flew through Malfoy's head at the same moment it did hers: _Not your father?_

Ruby turned abruptly and started sauntering up the front walk. Malfoy nudged her forward slightly with a brush of his hand, allowing it to hover once more over the small of her back as they followed Ruby up the front walk where the pebbles mercifully turned to a flat sanded walkway.

"How did you get here?" Ruby turned a lazy half smile over her shoulder at Hermione, who now took in what the girl was wearing: smooth tan pants and tall black boots. She had been riding. Hermione felt infinitely more vulnerable with her short step, her undone face, her long dress. She felt like a motley of contrasts, both under and over dressed.

"We Apparated," Hermione said frankly. What she would have wanted to hear years ago. Uncomplicated truth with no superfluous explanation.

If Ruby didn't know what that meant, she didn't show it, nodding slightly and keeping her little half smile. Her arms swung by her sides delicately, yet unnaturally— as if she might fall if she did not.

Hermione glanced up at Malfoy, who gave her an imperceptible nod of approval. She allowed herself a breath, relieved that the nausea was now gone, and further relieved that Malfoy started asking Ruby questions. Momentarily shielding her.

Malfoy hadn't told her there might be a daughter at the dinner, but if he had, the way Ruby spoke would not be what she expected. There was a distinctly breathy and innocent quality to the way she talked— yet nothing she said implied that innocence.

"I don't remember the last time I saw you."

"It was the Christmas Eve party in Vienna." Malfoy looked down at Hermione, mouth open, before Ruby interrupted.

"Well then I wouldn't remember at all."

She caught Hermione's eye suddenly, twisting her head with an expression of sly camaraderie, as if expecting Hermione to laugh.

Malfoy abruptly changed the subject, pressing his palm more firmly into Hermione's back as they followed their strange hostess.

"After you." Ruby had stopped at the large double doors, opening one with fake ceremony and gesturing for Hermione and Malfoy to step inside.

She managed to give the girl another tight smile, stepping up the small stoop. To her surprise, Malfoy's hand slid from her back and suddenly grabbed her hand, holding it poised midair as if to balance her.

Hermione caught herself the moment her shocked stare landed on his blank grey eyes, trying to pass off her initial blunder with a gracious expression and stepping over the stoop. Malfoy let their hands fall and she crossed her arms over her chest as they followed Ruby through a foyer that rivaled that of Grimmauld in size, but was incomparably grander. Everything seemed bright despite the rapidly darkening summer evening— white and gold from floor to ceiling, the walls not cluttered with muttering portraits, the lights not dim with grime.

Malfoy matched her steps, still quietly talking to Ruby as the girl led them through the foyer. She felt his fingers brush the side of her arm through the silk sleeves, once, twice before she looked up. He gave her a stern look, tugging at her right arm.

Hermione quickly uncrossed them.

"Hermione is a unique name," Ruby turned her half smile to Hermione again. "Family tradition, like Draco?"

"Oh, er— no, my parents met in university English class their first year, it was required and they both hated it. They're both dentists, they don't very much enjoy literature. Anyways, they studied _A Winter's Tale_ together to get through it—"

It was a story Hermione had told dozens of times and she would have continued this monologue happily had Ruby not whipped her head back around.

"Dentists?"

"Yes." Hermione felt much more in her stride now, able to loftily recount the origin of her name.

"So not—" Ruby glanced at Draco, then back at Hermione, but didn't continue her sentence. She looked slightly unsure of herself.

"No, they're not magic. None of my family is."

"Oh," Ruby said softly, turning back around. They had entered a large sitting room, replete with sleek furniture of equal elegance to the foyer. Malfoy halted and Hermione stopped dead, taking a small step back to stand beside him as Ruby walked over to a long bar cabinet. She poured herself a drink, downed it, then turned back to them with a smile.

"I'll let Mum know you're here. I'm surprised she didn't meet you at the door." She raised her eyebrows again conspiratorially at Hermione, who was very confused by this behavior, before sauntering out of the room the same direction they'd come.

The moment she was gone, Malfoy let out an exhale.

"Merlin. _Ruby_. Fucking hell, I can't believe I forgot she'd be home for the holidays."

Hermione realized she had also forgotten it was summer holidays. "She's— nice."

Malfoy was shaking his head and surveying the room, eyes everywhere but her face. "Yeah, she's nice but she's a— a _wild child_."

The Muggle phrase sounded silly in his mouth. Hermione, spurred in part by nerves, actually laughed at this: a tinkling, genuine laugh that fell between them before she quickly cut herself off.

"A _wild child_?"

"Oh, yeah," Malfoy was rubbing his chin absently, still not meeting her eyes although he had looked back down at her with a jerk when she laughed. "The last time I saw her she was throwing up in a potted Christmas tree. She was thirteen." He sounded disgusted. "She must be sixteen now— I assume it's only gotten worse, my father always said Mottershead was raising her to act that way..."

A moment of silence passed as they stood facing each other. He seemed... at ease. The electric light fell upon his features in such a way that he looked distinctly less shadowed, less brooding than under the chandeliers of Grimmauld. She couldn't help but let her eyes keep slipping over him— Draco Malfoy as he might have been, were fate kinder. He seemed lankier in his suit, younger.

And yet there was a kind of striking power behind it being a disguise. Behind the knowledge of him— them— walking two worlds together. Behind the wand in his pocket, the wound on her arm, the questions even she did not ask. How many people he had killed. How many people he had tortured. How many times he himself had been tortured.

How it had felt to watch her be tortured.

Part of her wanted to ask how he was feeling.

"Try not to be so stiff," Malfoy suddenly muttered. He was examining her, tracing his eyes somewhere below her chin.

"I'm nervous," she snapped again.

"Don't be."

"Oh, don't be," Hermione said mockingly. His eyes finally snapped up to meet hers. "I feel so much better."

"Don't be," he said again, and she was certain in that moment he had allowed his occlumency to slip away, eyes hot and alive as they searched her. " _Don't be_. You're Hermione Granger," his voice was quiet as he said the words and to her surprise, her chin was suddenly tipped up by two long fingers. Hermione didn't jump this time, but she did fight down a flush at the contact.

It didn't help he was staring into her eyes like he saw something within them.

He continued. "And _these_ are just a couple Muggles who raised a rather delinquent daughter. You would have impressed them when you were eleven. Let alone eighteen."

Hermione blinked, uncertain at Malfoy's implicit praise. It was off-putting, just as much as the physical touch. Perhaps he wanted her to get used to it, like he said back at the flat. It was all very different from the Malfoy she knew and she twisted her head to look away—

The fingers turned into a hand, cupping her chin and gently drawing her back.

"Don't be," he said for the third time, and now she really did flush, the way his eyes searched her, the way he suddenly seemed able to touch her—

There were clacking footsteps approaching outside the room, each landing with an echo that was suddenly coming quite close. Hermione broke Malfoy's gaze and made to pull her chin away, ready to receive who she assumed must be Ruby's mother, but Malfoy held her firmly.

"Malfoy—" she whispered.

"Let her see this," he said quietly, and her flush deepened, understanding now.

He wasn't trying to get her used to anything. He was already performing.

"Draco!" The voice coming from the entryway was warm, feminine, exultant. Malfoy dropped her chin with a sheepish smile, with every air of having been caught in some private moment.

"Evangeline," he greeted as she approached them, stepping forward himself and leaving Hermione standing awkwardly, hands at her sides, still flushed and perhaps even more stiff than before.

The two embraced and Malfoy kissed her cheek. Hermione rearranged her features to keep from gaping as the woman pressed both hands to Malfoy's cheeks as if to examine him. Like a mother would.

"Are you well? Oh, you've gotten so tall— everything that's been happening, are you well, Draco?"

"As well as can be." His voice was polite, with an undercurrent of regret. Hermione couldn't stop staring at the two. Everything about this seemed natural, as though she were watching a film, but Malfoy being the one in the exchange was practically fantastic after his months of cold, controlled surliness; and before that, after years of his sneers and smirks.

"Evangeline, I told you about Hermione?" She took this as her cue to smile, stepping forward to meet him. "Hermione, this is Evangeline, one of my mother's good friends."

Her name rolled off his tongue in a way she was not yet used to.

"I'm so pleased to meet you—" Hermione was in the middle of extending her hand when Evangeline gripped her by both arms briefly, kissing each cheek.

When the older woman released her, Malfoy was fighting a smirk, the corners of his lips twitching.

"Hermione. So nice to meet you." The woman had the same eyes as her daughter, pale green and gentle, yet with a coldness rippling beneath them. A curiosity that was not wholly benign. "I was so pleased to hear Draco wanted to introduce us to you."

"Oh, I've heard so much about you." The words felt clunky, but Evangeline smiled nonetheless, extending a hand to take Hermione's.

"Come," she said, casting a smile at Malfoy before extending it to Hermione. "Dinner is almost ready, we'll just have a few drinks before, I think..."

Evangeline started tugging Hermione forward. Malfoy followed, hands casually in his pockets, straying a slight distance behind.

Hermione was relieved to see Evangeline was dressed in similar attire, a sweeping plum dress with a modest neckline. She no longer felt so overdressed as she had with Ruby.

"Hermione, you must forgive my earlier poor manners, I forgot how prompt the Malfoys are." She gave her an indulgent smile over her shoulder. "When people arrive by _car_ they're usually fashionably late, I'm afraid Narcissa is always showing up before I have half my makeup on..."

"Oh," Hermione laughed, because she didn't know what else to say. Should she have put makeup on? She and Malfoy hadn't even thought of it—

"Ruby is changing," Evangeline's voice was now a little more businesslike. "And I'm afraid Richard only just got home from work so he'll be a moment, but I think it'll be nice just the three of us to begin with, I have _so many_ questions..."

Hermione shot a glance at Malfoy behind her, remembering what he said about being vague. _Take the lead_ , she tried to plead with her eyes. His were back to being pleasant, yet blank looking.

 _Bastard_ , she thought for the umpteenth time.

Evangeline had turned them into another sitting room, this one smaller. There was a long couch and two wing-backed chairs positioned in the middle; a veritable bar against the far wall, putting the small display Ruby had happily dipped into to shame. Malfoy made a small exhale behind her, one she might have missed entirely if she were not so nervous that all of her senses were at their most alert. Hermione glanced behind her. He was looking around, eyes looking slightly dazed.

"When was the last time you were here, Draco?" Evangeline gestured for Hermione to sit on the couch. Malfoy sat down beside her, extending his legs with every air of being perfectly comfortable.

Malfoy cleared his throat. "I think I was fifteen. With my mother."

Evangeline had her back to them, fiddling around at the bar. "That's right, it was for tea, weren't we right in this room?"

"Yes." Hermione glanced at Malfoy, who was leaning against the armrest of the couch, fingers tracing his chin absently as he glanced around.

Her mind raced to figure out the timeline of this. It must have been the Malfoys began to neglect these ties after fourth year, yet—

"I can't believe that was almost three years ago." Evangeline turned back to them with a radiant smile, offering Malfoy a glass of some amber liquid. "Hermione, what can I get for you?"

Hermione felt Malfoy shift slightly beside her and before she could stumble for an appropriate answer, he cut in smoothly.

"Do you still drink that white my mother likes? I don't remember what it's called—"

Evangeline bustled back to the bar again with exclamations of what a fine memory Draco had. Malfoy looked down and gave her a pointed look. Whatever he was trying to communicate was unclear.

When Evangeline turned back she had two long stemmed glasses in her hand. Hermione thanked her stiffly as she took one, trying to adjust her posture to be more comfortable and less rigid. As soon as Draco sipped from his glass she took a long draw from hers, wishing it was stronger.

Evangeline, deposited neatly in one of the wing-backed chairs, was now looking at her and Draco like they were an assortment of cakes and she was deliberating which to eat first. "So...? I haven't heard from your mother in a year, Draco, but I didn't think you were seeing anybody."

 _A year?_ Hermione sipped again nervously and looked up at Malfoy, filing away her questions for later, and very much hoping he would respond to this half question.

"Oh, she's shy, Draco," Evangeline cooed with an indulgent smile at Hermione.

"She's really not." Malfoy looked down at her with blankly amused eyes. She raised her eyebrows at him in what she hoped looked like a playful way, feeling quite frozen. Why couldn't he have said more about their story than to be vague—

"Hermione and I went to school together. She's probably the least-shy person I know." He smirked, taking a sip of his drink, before continuing. "We weren't together last you spoke to my mother. Was that two Christmases ago?"

"Yes, just a note. Draco, everything that's been happening— Richard will want to know more I'm sure, but you can't even imagine what it's been like for us—"

An interruption in the form of Ruby brought an abrupt end to the subject and Hermione released an exhale she barely realized she was holding. As Evangeline and Ruby had a rather brief standoff over whether Ruby would be allowed a glass of wine— _"Oh, alright, but just one tonight"_ — Malfoy looked down again at Hermione, leaning over her ear as he slipped an arm behind her back.

"Let me answer. Unless she asks you a direct question." His voice ghosted over the shell of her ear. Malfoy waited, paused there, until she nodded in assent, sipping her drink.

Ruby plopped down on the other side of Hermione, leaning casually against the opposite arm rest, glass poised in her fingers. She gave Hermione yet another conspiratorial look. Hermione wished she would stop doing that.

"Were you and Draco close at school?"

That was most certainly a direct question.

"Not close. That's just how we met." Hermione smiled, sipping her wine again. It would be gone before long.

Ruby opened her mouth, a mischievous brow quirked, when a second interruption saved Hermione for the second time.

"Sorry to be so late, everyone, apologies—" A red-faced, rather corpulent man noisily entered the room, pausing briefly at the small party sitting in the center of the room. Draco immediately stood up and Hermione quickly followed, ankles pinching uncomfortably in her heels. The man's tone implied absolutely no hint of being sorry.

"Richard." Draco held out a hand that the man took, eyebrows slightly raised. "Good to see you. This is Hermione—"

The man abruptly stepped forward to kiss Hermione briefly on the cheek. In her heels, they were eye to eye.

"Pleased to meet you, Hermione." Richard Mottershead, whom she had been nervously wondering about for the past week, turned away from her quickly, with no words to offer Draco. He immediately headed tothe bar, clattering with ice and metal tools loudly.

Draco was stiff beside her. She looked up at him, realizing she was biting her lip and abruptly correcting her facial features.

"We were just talking about how Draco and Hermione met," Evangeline said demurely, head tipped towards her husband. Draco sat and Hermione followed suit, shifting towards him slightly as his hand slipped around her back once more.

"Hm." He swung back around, appraising them with glass in hand.

"We went to school together." Hermione, thankfully feeling the wine beginning to loosen her tongue, jumped at the chance to speak to him.

"Hm." Now Mottershead looked solely at her. "You're a witch too, of course."

Though she had been expecting Mottershead to know, it was disconcerting nonetheless to have a Muggle enquire to her face as to whether or not she was a witch. She blinked before letting the wine slip a smile across her features.

"Yes, I am—"

"But your family isn't." Ruby had her wine glass pressed contemplatively against her bottom lip. "Is that quite common?"

"I think dinner ought to be ready," Evangeline interrupted, standing hastily. Hermione glanced up at Malfoy, wondering if this turn in conversation indicated a faux pas, but his eyes were perfectly blank, fixed somewhere beside Evangeline's head. "Shall we? Richard, take that open bottle there and maybe a second. Ruby, can you go tell Edward we're moving into the dining room?"

Malfoy stood quickly, offering a hand to Hermione. She took it, trying to meet his eye. _Was that a mistake? What did I say—_

Richard's voice was rising as they exited the sitting room, practically raving to Evangeline about the day he had had, the traffic on his way home, the incompetence of his secretary, without so much as a backward glance at Draco and Hermione as they followed. Evangeline looked apologetically behind her once or twice.

Malfoy didn't look down at her, not even as he pulled out the first chair at the dining room table and motioned for her to sit. Not even as he sat down beside her. Not even as Mottershead plunked heavily down at the head of the table directly to her right, slipping his gaze over the both of them as though they were another inconvenience in what he was still elaborating upon as a long day of inconveniences.

She was a buffer between the two men. The occluded Malfoy, and the man she needed so desperately to impress.

"Your coming's quite timely," Mottershead said gruffly, taking a healthy swig from his glass. Hermione jumped as Evangeline politely swept her own away, refilling it. "Didn't think we'd see the Malfoys again for a while, did we, Evangeline?"

Mottershead gestured vaguely as he spoke. Draco answered him smoothly.

"This is all expected to be over soon. Less than a year—"

"Oh, that's what that blasted woman keeps telling us," Mottershead said darkly, taking another large gulp from his glass. Draco did the same next to Hermione and she mirrored him, nerves heightening. "Jones. Meanwhile the airports are shut down, curfews everywhere, new deaths all the time— terrorist attacks my arse."

Mottershead looked expectantly at Draco.

"I expect there's a reason you suddenly want to pay us a visit, hm? Parents can't be bothering to acknowledge our existence these days, awfully similar to the _last_ time this happened—"

"Richard." Evangeline's voice was sharp.

Unabashed, Mottershead finished his drink and poured himself a fresh one. Draco shifted beside her slightly, angling himself to address the red-faced man across her.

"Forgive me for wanting to introduce you to Hermione," Draco's voice had a hard edge to it and she inhaled sharply. This was not going well. "As it happens the non-magical world is presently a safer place for us to be together—"

"That have anything to do with what side you're on?" Mottershead leaned back in contrast to Draco leaning forward, swirling his drink and staring hard at Draco. "Your father's on a watch list we've been given. Don't think I don't know exactly where your allegiance lies when it comes down to it—"

"Well as _that side_ wants me dead," Hermione suddenly cut in. Mottershead's sharp gaze moved to meet her own. "I can assure you that you won't be seeing me on any watch list."

Mottershead's gaze sharpened. Hermione reached forward, taking a demure sip from her replenished glass. "And that goes for Draco as well," she added primly.

Mottershead's gaze was now flicking between her and Draco. Openly assessing them.

"My parents are not magical," Hermione said boldly. She could feel Draco sit back behind her, but she didn't dare look at him, keeping her eyes on Mottershead. "It's made me quite the target. I'm sure you know why," she indulged him, unsure if he did, but certain it would appease him if she acted as though she assumed he was in the know. To her relief, he inclined his head towards her slightly. "I've been working with the resistance since the war began."

"Hermione is a humanitarian of sorts," Draco suddenly jumped in behind her, hooking several long fingers around her own. She almost jumped, covering it up by turning to look at him. He was gazing at her. "Been taking matters into her own hands. To protect other Muggleborns."

Hermione flinched as Mottershead laughed drily behind her.

"That's right, I forgot you lot call us _Muggles_ ," he shook his head, raising his eyebrows at Hermione. "In need of _humanitarian_ aid, hm?"

"I think that's enough of that talk for now," Evangeline said breezily, and Hermione wondered what it could possibly be like when Draco visited with his parents. If perhaps things were usually this tense— or if the present state of affairs were making Mottershead this forward.

Draco was gripping her fingers so tightly they were starting to hurt.

Mottershead was now looking back and forth between them as though very confused about something. "Hm," was all he said, sipping his now almost depleted drink.

A moment of rather tense silence passed before Ruby entered with a middle aged man who, after several trips, had presented them with a dinner that may have been appealing to Hermione were she not so preoccupied with trying to think her way into how to turn the conversation in a positive direction.

Draco— _Malfoy_ , that was to say— had already made several mistakes. Had been on thin ice the moment Mottershead arrived and aggravated him further, in spite of all his pre-dinner lectures on what would make Mottershead tick. It was like he couldn't help avoiding it, even revealed his temper at one point— but then, Hermione realized, there was very obviously history between the Malfoys and Mottersheads that immediately had both men ready to argue with one another.

Fuck letting Malfoy answer questions about the war unless she was directly addressed. Hermione sipped her wine.

Malfoy was speaking to Evangeline and Ruby, shooting only a handful of glances at Mottershead, who was tucking into his potatoes.

"—brightest witch of her age." Hermione jumped out of reverie, realizing that Malfoy was talking about her. "Of the decade, really. There's not a person from our school who didn't know about her. She'd already begun to receive outside attention from the Ministry by our fifth year— used to drive me mad, I could never beat her at anything. Except maybe Potions—"

"You couldn't _beat me_ at Potions," Hermione snapped, forgetting herself for a moment. Evangeline and Ruby laughed.

"Oh, I did. Still could." Malfoy took a sip from his drink, lips twitching into a smirk.

"No you can't," she glared at him. Malfoy rivaling her abilities in Potions had long been a thorn in her side. But he wasn't _better_ than her, that was a gross overestimation of their abilities.

"Merlin, I didn't think it would still bother you so much to be second in something—"

"M— Draco, I was never, _ever_ second to you in Potions." Hermione quite forgot where they were for a moment. Malfoy was purposefully riling her, she knew that, almost toying with her. But this was one area where she could not help but take the bait.

Malfoy's smirk reaching Hogwarts-level smugness wasn't helping things. "I most definitely was third and fourth year." He leaned against the armrest of his chair towards her. "You threw a fit when you saw our scores on the board. Don't think I didn't notice."

Hermione opened her mouth, about to furiously continue by recounting every single time she had managed the best score in class, when she heard an amused snort behind her.

Hermione turned to see Mottershead looking at her, with an air of being mildly entertained, though his eyes were still hard. Malfoy glanced at her before turning back to Evangeline and Ruby and was commencing to tell them all about how Hermione had been receiving offers for Ministry training programs for years, which was true, although she was surprised it had reached his ears.

"You're interesting together," Mottershead said, leaning forwards slightly. Hermione shifted her body to face him. _Finally_. "His parents don't know, I'm sure."

She shook her head, casting her eyes down in what she hoped was a forlorn sort of way.

Mottershead nodded knowingly. "I assumed that was the case when you said your parents weren't magic. Can't stand them for the past few years," he told her quietly, reaching across the table to refill her wine glass. "Don't care how tight of a spot they say they're in with all this—" he passed her glass back to her and she raised it slightly to him before taking a sip. "Completely unacceptable to support that— cause, whatever it is." Mottershead waved his hand in a vague gesture.

"I know." Hermione's voice was quiet. "I don't think of myself as a humanitarian, by the way, Draco just..."

She shrugged, relieved that Mottershead nodded, his eyes suddenly taking on a similar conspiratorial gleam to his daughter's.

"That's all true what he says? That you're the 'brightest witch of your age?' Even with non-magical parents?"

How funny it was, Hermione thought to herself, that his reaction would be so similar to that of wizarding society, unable to speak of her accolades without attaching their shock at her parentage.

"Well I don't exactly say that about myself," Hermione said. "But yes, it's true I was always top of our class. That's how I came into my position on our side. I've been researching for the past year."

Mentioning anything about Harry and her connection to him felt like it would be a mistake.

"Draco wanted to introduce us because he thought I would have questions for you," Hermione lied smoothly. "I've been looking into international law quite a bit on my own recently. I was trying to see if there were any way I could convince our side to do more for people like me. But he thought I might like to meet someone in your line of work-- it's not like I grew up able to meet members of the House of Lords." She smiled at him shyly.

Mottershead was interested in this. "International law in magical society?"

"There are a lot of parallels. I first learned about how there's legal and historical overlap between our societies when I was just thirteen," Hermione said, leaning closer to him as Evangeline exclaimed loudly at something Draco said. "You know, at Draco and I's school, we took a class on non-magical society. You wouldn't believe how much they had wrong about us."

"Us" wasn't intentional as her first words had been. She meant it, words falling from her mouth easily, only to be contemplated later.

"Mm." Mottershead sipped his drink. "Knowing what I do, that doesn't surprise me. Expect that was odd for you."

"Sometimes," Hermione replied truthfully. She sipped her wine before continuing. It was making her feel warm. "But it helped knowing I was the best in the room. Draco's lying. He couldn't best me in anything," she finished primly.

Mottershead laughed at this, and she smiled, uncertain. "Great friends in school, then?"

"Erm." _Be vague_. "We've both grown up quite a lot since then."

Mottershead snorted, muttering something as he replenished his glass. Again. "I forgot you people are expected to grow up earlier in life. Seventeen, is it? And no university? _His_ parents," he jerked his thumb in Malfoy's direction. Hermione thought she saw his eyes flicker towards them briefly. "Married before they were twenty. Suddenly showed up with a wife in tow, positively sneering at the rest of us like we were a band of immature schoolboys—"

He was talking about Lucius. Unfriendly terms or not, it was bizarre that the Muggle next to her had known a Death Eater long enough to remember before he was married.

"No, I agree that's far too early," Hermione said, swallowing her questions about Richard Mottershead and Lucius Malfoy. A white lie, an old dream of hers, felt like it might be pleasing to Mottershead. "I always intended to go to university after school. If we weren't at war I'd be going this fall. I still want to once everything is... over."

Mottershead raised his eyebrows and he leaned across the table. "What would you like to study?"

 _What would you like to talk about?_ "Well as I said, I'm quite interested in international law. And I've always so enjoyed history. I think there are so many skills you can gain from those areas of study."

His eyes lit up. Hermione fought a triumphant smile. "Did Draco mention I went to Oxford?"

"He didn't."

Mottershead took a large swallow of his drink. "Let me tell you—"

Richard Mottershead wasn't so intimidating, she decided as he began to ramble on about his studies, which from the way he described it had bled seamlessly into a couple unpaid jobs and serendipitous connections that had somehow led him to where he was today. Hermione felt money and status had a great deal to do with this "serendipity" but didn't say so, nodding and humming in interest as he spoke, allowing herself to grow warmer with wine. But suddenly, she could see why he might be so well-connected as Malfoy had described him to be. For all the overt hostility he had shown Malfoy, Mottershead was now asking her open and pointed questions about herself. As though he cared about the answers, and more than that, was impressed enough by them to continue asking her about herself.

It couldn't be wealth, and it couldn't be chance that he was where he was today, she realized: Mottershead was the type of person who inspired confidence, and after four glasses of bourbon was still sharp of wit and quick to pick up on details, referencing them so much later in conversation that she forgot she had mentioned them to begin with.

It was the kind of charisma that could not be learned.

When she told him about the independent eighth century rune translation she had undertaken sixth year— a concept she carefully decided was safe— he shook his head in amazement.

"She's too smart for you Draco," he suddenly said loudly, interrupting the triangle of conversation that had been carrying on quite separate from them.

Malfoy turned his head in surprise. "I know," was all he said. Smiling down at her. Blank eyed.

Hermione felt herself flushing at the praise.

Evangeline reached a hand across the table demurely, as if about to make an important announcement. "We were just talking," she informed her husband. "About how we missed Draco's birthday."

Hermione privately decided Evangeline didn't have her husband's talent for staying sharp after several drinks, sneaking a sideways glance at Malfoy, who was still angled away from her to face Evangeline.

"What did you get him, Hermione?" This question came from Ruby, who seemed bored by her mother's antics.

Hermione's insides froze momentarily. "A book."

"A book?"

"Yes. A book."

There was a pause.

"Draco, Hermione tells me she's researching for the side that _isn't_ blowing up bridges every other week." Mottershead was leaning back in his chair, eyes fixed on Draco, who finally turned back to face Hermione and Mottershead. "Am I to assume you've fled home and are doing the same? Or are you suddenly bringing her to dinner—" Mottershead irked his thumb at Hermione. "—because you're hedging your bets like your parents, now that we're being told by all accounts the maniac your _father_ 's been bankrolling for the past decade is starting to decline?"

The comment was so inappropriate in contrast to the conversation that she and Mottershead had been having that Hermione's jaw actually popped open momentarily. She looked up at Draco, whose eyes were still blank but distinctly colder.

Hadn't they just been having a pleasant conversation? What had she missed?

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're implying," Malfoy said coldly. She wanted to pinch him.

"I'm implying I think you brought Miss Hermione here because the Malfoys need an out after foolishly funding terrorists." He raised his eyebrows. "Again."

Mottershead was skimming waters near the truth. He seemed to have half a clear picture of the war, and half a clear understanding of the Malfoys— which Draco had dismissed, underestimated. As all wizards did when they dealt with Muggles, Hermione realized, feeling a surge of intense resentment towards Malfoy. Of course he would be suspicious of Draco.

Hermione dared not look at Draco as he responded to Mottershead. Perhaps it was good he was occluded. It always struck a nerve when she made similar comments about his family's allegiance.

"There are things about the war that you don't understand." Malfoy's voice was tightly controlled. "But I can assure you if I needed an _out_ , I wouldn't be looking for it from you."

Hermione held her breath, staring hard at her plate. There was barely a pause before Mottershead inquired—

"Are you living with your parents." There was a sound like a gulp, a trace of bourbon wafting through the air. It was barely a question.

She couldn't help but turn towards Malfoy, whose face betrayed no sign of hesitation, but the pause he allowed to ensue revealed everything.

"Ah." Mottershead leaned over Hermione, refilling Malfoy's half empty glass. "Things I don't understand, hm?" Hermione felt like she was scarcely breathing as he leaned back from her, stoppering the bottle's glass top with a _clink_. "I understand enough to know it is bizarre for you, in the middle of what you are calling a _war_ , to solicit an invitation for dinner with _Muggles_ with a new girlfriend who comes from a _Muggle_ family. When, if I'm not mistaken, your family is not on her side, has never been on our side—"

 _Malfoy, you fucking idiot. You fucking idiot_. Hermione wanted to put her head in her hands as Mottershead's voice dripped dangerously with dislike. Malfoy hadn't thought this properly through; all his talk of not needing to disclose too much was premised on something she should've caught immediately: he was assuming Mottershead as a Muggle wouldn't know enough to see the implausibility of their false relationship.

But he only suspected Malfoy of being deceitful. Not her.

"No, Mr. Mottershead, there are things you don't understand about Draco." Her interjection drew every eye to her, including Malfoy, whose gaze was burning with unreadable instructions. To hell with whatever they were. "He— Draco and his family aren't looking for any kind of out, because they've already all been granted amnesty." She took a shaky breath. "In exchange for spying."

She may as well have obliterated the entire room for the silence that followed.

Hermione twisted her head to look up at Draco, who was almost fully facing her in his seat, leaning away from her as if she were a dangerous and volatile animal he was trying to figure out how to get away from. His occlumency had completely slipped, shock and incredulity etched plainly on his features.

She stretched out a hand and placed it on his knee, meeting his eyes with what she hoped looked like a reassuring smile.

"It's alright, Draco."

"Spying?"

She turned her head, hand still firmly on Draco's leg, to see Mottershead wearing a similarly shocked expression.

"We weren't exaggerating when we called this war," she said quietly. "Draco joined us almost a year ago. The Malfoys have been granted amnesty in exchange for Draco's help."

" _Hermione_." Malfoy practically growled her name and she turned to him, trying to keep her smile from slipping when she saw the expression in his eyes.

"No, Draco, why shouldn't they know?" She squeezed his leg, feeling the eyes of Mottershead, Evangeline, and the open-mouthed Ruby on them.

"That's how we fell in love." Her voice was quiet and she refused to move her gaze from his. His grey eyes were hot upon hers, their pupils twitching.

It made her feel momentarily smug that he was so angry with her he couldn't occlude properly.

"But our side has failed both of us," she continued. Malfoy finally broke her gaze, actually covering his face with his hands and shaking his head. She did not remove her hand. "The only reason I'm protected is because of my role as a researcher, there are wizards with non-magical parents all over the country who have asked for shelter and been denied. And Draco is put in increasingly compromising situations. They _use_ him. His life means nothing to them. I never know if he's coming home."

Hermione squeezed his leg again, finally looking up. Evangeline had her hands clapped over her mouth. Mottershead still looked stunned.

"That's why Draco wanted me to meet you," she told Mottershead. His expression was unchanging. "Because... our side isn't protecting people like me. Like you and me. And things can't continue this way." Her voice was a plea, stirring the tense air. She dared not look back at Draco yet. "I want to change things, but I don't know how. We thought if anyone could understand— it would be you."

Mottershead's shock had faded slightly from his face. He was now staring hard at her and Draco.

"Draco," Evangeline's voice was aghast. Hermione turned and saw her reaching across the table to Draco, whose hands had slipped from his face as she spoke. Evangeline grabbed his hand and he jumped. "Do— do your parents—"

"My mother knows." Draco's voice was flat. "Hermione, I think we should be going."

Evangeline's protestations were lost by the blood roaring in Hermione's ears, a sudden surge of adrenaline as Draco helped her out of her seat, dropping her hand almost immediately.

Hermione only had eyes for Mottershead as Draco began making bland excuses and thanks to Evangeline, who sounded positively on the verge of tears. He was looking at her with a tough expression, rivaling Draco for how little emotion she could discern from it.

"It was lovely to chat with you about Oxford, anyway." Hermione bit her lip, deciding allowing her nerves to show might be strategic in this moment. "Thank you for— everything."

"Hermione." Draco's voice was still flat behind her, one hand placed heavily around her forearm. She made a quick goodbye to Evangeline and Ruby, who was looking anything but bored.

The moment they had exited the dining room, Draco broke into a speed walk, gripping her arm roughly as she struggled to keep up with his stride.

"Let go of me," she hissed, jerking her arm. He suddenly came to a halt, glaring down at her. Hermione couldn't help but shrink back at the expression of rage burning across his features, stumbling slightly as her Mary Janes twisted beneath her.

They were standing in the large white foyer. The sun had set completely now, the yard before them lit with strange lights that made the outside appear almost blue. Draco— Malfoy glanced behind them towards the dining room, nostrils flaring.

"Fuck it," he snarled.

With a _crack_ they were back in his flat, and he practically flung her away from himself.

"Granger—" his voice was furious as he rounded on her, eyes crackling with the same intensity as the night at the Owlery, and she was reminded briefly of the surge of intense guilt, the gloved hand around her jaw, before she caught herself. She crossed her arms.

"What happened to Hermione?"

"You fucking idiot." He advanced on her, jabbing a pointed finger in her face. She barely blinked, raising her chin loftily. "You fucking little—"

"I think you're the idiot," she said coldly. "You were _blowing_ it. After all that talk about how to deal with Mottershead. And you didn't know he might know your fucking _father_ is a Death Eater?"

"He doesn't," Malfoy growled, now running his hand through his hair in frustration. "He doesn't, Granger, he thinks my father is _financing_ them which you would have known if you listened—"

"He saw your father on a watch list! You should have had a better plan, for all your scheming—"

"And you had _no_ plan!" Malfoy practically roared, advancing on her once more. " _Merlin_ , Granger, you told them I'm a _spy_ , are you fucking out of your mind?"

Hermione raised her chin, uncowed even as Malfoy stepped close enough that normally her body would be begging her to take a step back. "You really think You-Know-Who is going to knock on their door for a little legilimency session?"

"You just told a man I barely trust that I'm a double agent," he snarled down at her. Cheeks pink with fury.

She merely raised her eyebrows. "Your story was that you were working for the Order anyway. Speaking of, were you lying when you said your mother knows?"

Malfoy was shaking his head at her, looking rather mad and not appearing to be listening at all. "And you all but told them we want to _use_ them—"

"I asked for their help." Now she raised her voice, pushing herself forward, hands on her hips. Malfoy jerked his head back. "There's a difference. I won't apologize. You were treating them like wizards always treat Muggles and," she raised her chin even more, her head tipped so far back her bun tickled the bare expanse of skin on her back. "You had absolutely no story as to why we were there when they know full well we're at war. You should be _thanking_ me."

Malfoy turned away from her, dragging a hand across his face. Finally, back still to her, he said, "Get changed."

And he stalked away from her into the kitchen, where the clinking of glassware let her know he was pouring himself a drink.

Hermione clomped awkwardly into the bedroom, unzipping the dress and tearing off her Mary Janes. Her hands were shaking from the adrenaline of her confession, as well as the strange rush of arguing with Malfoy. However, it made her feel powerful; exhilarated. She pulled on her tights and jumper, strapping the holster around herself with a relieved exhale. She unclipped the gun to hold in her hand briefly, gripping the glossy handle, checking the rounds as if expecting to find them missing. Satisfied, she replaced the gun and pulled on her jacket.

After a moment of hesitation, she put Narcissa Malfoy's dress on a hanger and laid it neatly on the bed before leaving the bedroom.

She closed the door with a slow, careful click behind her, trying to ignore the set of grey eyes boring into her from the sofa. Hermione raised her chin at him again.

"Your neck will get stuck that way if you're not careful." His voice was burning with barely controlled anger. Malfoy jerked his chin towards the low table in front of him, where a silver hair pin and glass of fire whiskey were sitting. "Your portkey."

Hermione stepped forward, examining it on the table before picking it up. There was a rather ornate design on the pin, an emerald snake. The snake was somehow feminine, elegant, in a way she didn't think serpents could be. Another one of Narcissa's belongings, no doubt.

She glared at Malfoy before taking it in her palm. "Hoping I'll be back, then?"

He breathed a cold laugh, reaching for the glass before him and finishing it in one.

Hermione was neither going to get a better goodbye than this, nor did she want one. Without so much as another glance at Malfoy, she squeezed the pin. In a rush of air, she landed back in the alley of Grimmauld, the dark London night around her.

Ears still pounding with adrenaline, she slowly stalked towards Grimmauld, watching it take form as she approached; the wine and the white foyer, the green eyes of Ruby, the guiding hand of Malfoy slipping away into nothingness behind her as she stepped through the buzzing wards and back into the war.

*

**A/N:**

**Thank you to londonscalling98 and actanonverba7 as always for helping me with this chapter! It's the longest one yet, but a lot of stuff needed to happen.**

**Thank you for all the comments and support, as well. Your comments actually send me.**

**As always I apologize for how much of a slow burn this is, but I can promise the first spicy scene is coming in just a few chapters...**

**Fiona**


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